Fragments of Delarn (Delarn Book 1)
by WolfOfRS
Summary: These are bits and pieces of Delarn's early life, seen through dream fragments and general memories. Though what she says usually doesn't stand on its own, maybe her memories are less faulty. She is a wolf shifter, one of few, and not to be mistaken for a werewolf. They don't come from this land, do they?
1. Three Wolves

Delarn settled at the foot of the Eagle's Peak, her head filled to the brim with uneasy memories as she fell asleep. After using this much energy she didn't doubt she would be plagued with nightmares, but it was necessary if she wanted to restore the mountain and prevent any factions from deciding her clan was a threat. That wasn't an important detail, really.

Her father, from early childhood, held her on his knee and smiled as he spoke excitedly about this and that, adventures that were acceptable for his little girl to hear. He was a big man, with a thick chest and dark red hair that fell down his back and over his shoulders in waves, and his eyes were yellow-green, always bright and curious about something. He was a proud man, and his voice boomed when he spoke, making the little girl grin. She was proud of her father and considered him to be quite the hero.

"Jerzio and Kyriska never were apart," he laughed, referring to one of the six others in his group, "They always made your mother a bit jealous, but she was clingy when she was jealous and couldn't keep her hands off me, so I didn't really mind."

"They had brown fur, didn't they papa?" She replied, used to this kind of talk from her father. It made her feel as if her mother was still alive, as if she knew her well. She knew a lot about her mother, really. She was very studious and had a way of enforcing joy or disapproval with a look. Her mother had silky black hair and was the only one that her father would really listen to. She also died of complications after birthing her.

"That's right," he replied, breaking into her thoughts. "They were called the lovers."

"But they weren't like you and mama," she put in stubbornly.

"That's right," he laughed. "They were dumber and didn't know what they were doing half the time. Why don't I tell you a real story? About your ancestors."

She nodded, her eyes wide, and he patted her mop of red as he started, his voice low and careful, "Long ago, before we came to this land before our forefathers came to this world, there were three wolves in the Silver Forest—our home and heaven.

"The first wolf—though all three were born the same and equal—was called White. White was the first wolf to decide that wolves needed to hunt for meat and be predators. She—as she was usually considered—also dictated that packs should have a strict hierarchy so that the strongest and most clever wolf may lead. She considered herself that wolf. She's also known for—" Her father cleared his throat quickly, "For being the goddess of romantic love among wolves—passionate love, and the love of raising pups. As you can imagine, White was a very proud sort of wolf."

"The next wolf was Black," he continued. "Black considered White a dear friend but did not agree with her ideals. She was a very patient wolf and knew how to assuage conflict. Black has been commonly seen as both male and female, and in those times the world was so unformed that they could slip between either with ease. For now, she's a she. Anyway, she amended some of White's creeds, stating that wolves must always work together and never be alone. They must always remember that those in their pack are their brothers and sisters, and they must always care each other. She was ideally the wolf of friendship and working together to assure the survival of the pack. She promised that even the least of the wolves, if they tried hard to survive, would be given a chance to keep the peace, and if not, that they may have a chance to find a new pack."

His face crinkled a bit, his expression a bit bleak, but only for a moment as he continued, "Now the last of the pack, and the most complicated was—

"Red," Delarn exclaimed, hearing this story many times, but never finding it to grow old.

"That's right," her father laughed. "Now Red was a clever sort of wolf, and knew all about humans, though there were none in the Silver Forest—that's just how clever he was. He knew that wolves were prone to wander far from home when dispersing, however, and it wouldn't be long before they would run into man. He taught the wolves that they should fear man, for most men made it a point to separate themselves from other animals."

"Didn't he make the wolf shifters though?" Delarn asked, like she always did at this point of the story, and knew that she had made it a ritual to do so.

"I'm getting to that in a second," he replied with a smile. "Now Red taught the wolves that they should fear man from the beginning, but White's descendants were very proud and grew in strife with man, and Black's descendants were very friendly so they grew curious about man and watched them, and neither made it easy to avoid them. Red wanted to warn them not to do either, but Black and White were proud and unyielding, and he knew it would make no difference if he wanted to keep peace in the forest."

"One day, however, White longed for pups. Though she considered Black a dear friend, she considered her foolish—remember that in these days Black could be either male or female, and the three considered this to be normal in the Silver Forest—so instead she came upon Red, trying to convince him to let her bear his cubs, but Red was in love with Black. When he told White this, she grew furious and very jealous. To spite him, considering him far more worthy of her fury, she convinced Black to be her mate instead, and chased Red from the Silver Forest." Izara Faewulf told this to his daughter with a careful smile, knowing that this part was a bit much for children.

"But White didn't know that Black was to bear Red's cubs," she replied with a smile, and he was reminded of how often he told her this story, and some less carefully than others when he was drinking.

"That's right," he replied carefully. "Black, however, thought that Red had simply left her, knowing that he was obsessed with the humans and would disappear for great lengths of time. That's why she finally agreed and took on the form of a male so that White may bear his children, but when White found that Black was already thick with Red's cubs she sent her away as well, though Black managed to hide away in a different part of the Silver Forest. Both, as females, bore cubs, and ever since Brown and Grey have been at odds—those being their children."

"As you know," her father continued, "Red came to this world, though not this land. Our homeland is far, far to the West, and maybe one day I'll take you back there. We as wolves must spread all across the world so that we may never die for there will always be people in opposition to us, and often after taking things we've had since the beginning of the world.

"Red, fearing this himself, gave us as wolf shifters a very important gift. He was very clever, after all. He made the first wolf shifters out of the blood he shed from battling with White. They were wolves, to begin with, but after using his blood—what we call Wolf Magic, often most affective in moments of great desperation and passion, though never in anger, especially for the red-furred—Red was able to give them the ability to become humans as well as wolves. They would be able to walk amongst them and speak like them if they wished. In our homeland, they grew plentiful, and it wasn't long before they began to travel all over the world. There aren't many in Gielinor itself yet, but I'm sure that may one day change."

"In exchange for this gift, however, they must remember that they are wolves first. If they don't they will not be able to return to wolf form and will stay a human until they do—though their wolf forms are instinctive, so it isn't simply a matter of memory loss.

"They cannot be corrupted and will die if they allow themselves to be influenced to change into other things, such as vyres or demons.

"Though Red loved elves as much as humans, he did not make any exceptions when he stated that if a wolf shifter wished to procreate it had to be with another wolf shifter or a human if he expected them to be a wolf shifter as well. He didn't want wolves to forget that they are not meant to live extensive lives, though this gift extended their lives to that of a human where otherwise they would simply live just as long as common wolves. Any other heritage would ascertain defects. That's not to say they can't have children with common wolves as well, but a wolf born as a wolf will wish to be nothing else," her father explained, and Delarn nodded, committing these to memory.

Delarn, however, was starting to fall asleep so her father cradled her in his arms and started humming to her gently, her eyes blinking closed slowly as he told her, "Just remember, this place doesn't know much about us yet, and Zamorak corrupts to the east, and fear of his corruption is more dangerous than corruption itself. Never let them know what you really are, not yet."

"Not fair," she murmured. "You do it all the time."

"Only around my friends, and those I really trust. Trust me when I say that I'm old enough to tell the difference," he hushed her quietly. "For now just do what I say, and everything will be alright."

"Love you, papa," she murmured, before falling asleep, and the present Delarn was transported to a different memory as she slept.


	2. Fear of Wolves

Delarn restlessly recalled what it was like to live in Varrock before the incident. It wasn't a bad place to grow up. There were plenty of cats, and though many of them took great joy in speaking in their own language and ignoring her, they would sometimes tell her stories, especially if she brought them saucers of cream. Her father would sometimes leave some for her to give to them, as he would find it amusing watching her, though he would have personally preferred if she would have chased them as it was what made a young child agile when she didn't have the forests to hunt in instead.

One cat, Jophera, took great joy in telling her stories as she was particularly naïve and would take anything he gave her at face value on most days. He would tell her stories about how the ocean was actually a huge cat that held the land on its back, or that the sun was the eye of a great lion.

He was a scraggly, brown, striped cat and he was missing an eye, and so Decari considered him to be wise indeed, like those adventurers that would tell their stories rancorously over the rest of the bar noise, or else those whose voices would be so low that she could barely hear them speaking, murmuring of horrors that a little girl would have never thought of herself, let alone witness Jophera was both, and likely the father of many of the kittens in the area.

"There you are, Delarn," he mewed, his voice a scraggly growl so she could understand him. These meetings would be in allies most days, or abandoned attics, out of sight of the other people of Varrock. "I have half a mind not to tell you a story today," he told her impatiently as he started to lap the cream, though by now she knew this was just bluster. He was as afraid of losing his cream as she was of not hearing another story from him. In any case, he was a bit slower today, and so she was truly worried by the time he finished and settled beside her.

"You're a naughty, little kitten, aren't you? Well here's an important story for you," he snorted. "There are wolves all over this land—wolves to the south in the desert, wolves in the far north in the cold artic, wolves to the west, on mountains at least twice as high as your sire, and even those brute bipedal wolves in the east," he told her, his tail lashing. She didn't know what werewolves were at the time, so she didn't care to argue with him on that last point. "Not to mention the jungle. Well what about here then? In the cities?"

"Well we're here," Delarn replied, looking confused.

Jophera sneezed and replied, "But your sire told you that you're not meant to be here, didn't he? He said you came from the far west. There's nothing important in the far west, or we cats would know about."

"I've never met a cat that cares where a wolf is found," Delarn replied, and he hissed at her, and she immediately grew quiet as he continued talking.

"Well wolves aren't too important, but we know where they're from and where they're located," he replied. "Now there are wolves all over this land, but not a single god that claims them as their own, none known to man. That means your three aren't considered legitimate as they're only known by wolves."

Delarn wanted to argue that there wasn't a god for cats either, but then again she thought there might be in the desert, and she already knew that Jophera would then have told her that every cat was a god to begin with, from the moment they were born, so they didn't need a single god to represent them all. Cats had nine lives, after all, so they practically lived as long as gods.

"Do you know what that means? There aren't wolves in the cities, and there aren't wolves in the prayer books, so that must mean that man doesn't care for them. That means that one day there will be a reckoning, and wolves that pretend to be humans are the first on the list. If humans hate anything, it's beings that claim to have the same intelligence as them that they consider beneath them," Jophera told her, and she suddenly felt cold. The cats often told stories that weren't stories, but this seemed a bit too far. Even naïve Delarn that took things at face value couldn't take this.

"No, that's not right," she replied. "My father helps people. They wouldn't just turn on him like that."  
"They don't keep people that they don't like, especially if they're useless to them," he replied.

"He's not useless! He works, and he helps around the town," she replied. "Everyone knows him! If they know what he is one day, then he'll just be more useful to them. He can do things humans can't."

"That's what they have dogs for. They don't have the sense of free will. They don't need to be paid. They can be beaten, and they won't run away. They're stupid and follow orders. They already decided they wanted to be stepped on by man a long, long time ago, and they don't steal babies out of their cribs," Jophera answered, his tail flicking as he saw how she grew more and more uneasy.

"Steal babies? We don't steal babies," she replied, her face growing as red as her hair, her golden eyes narrowed.

"Of course you don't, but humans lie, and one of the oldest lies they can tell is how dangerous things they hate are. What breeds hatred like fear? Hatred and Fear are the oldest mates you can imagine while Love and Understanding fight like cats and rats in the underground," Jophora answered, licking his paw. "They can make even you look like a foot soldier of Zaros, cub."

"A foot soldier of who?"

"Not important," he replied, flicking his tail in amusement as he continued, "There's a fire coming for you, and it'll eat up everything but the tip of your tail as a reminder of what you've done—or better what you didn't."

"A fire?" She replied, still feeling frustrated, but that smoky, blank eye locked on her and she couldn't think for a moment before he turned and started swaggering on his way, "But I'm bored of this story. Come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you a better one. If you don't believe me, then that's fine, but I've seen it in my right eye. There's a world out there where there are hardly any wolves at all and a lot more people that want them dead without knowing anything about them."

"Yeah," she replied, starting to feel colder, tears silently running down her face, though she didn't understand why. She gathered the dish and started back home, this time agitated and ill at ease. Usually, she would play with the other children that played in the streets in Varrock before going home. She particularly liked spending time with the Zamorakian children because they always told good stories and she didn't need to feed them anything for theirs, but now all she wanted was her father.

Most people just acted like the Zamorakian children didn't exist, and acted like she didn't exist while she was with them, though they would go back to noticing her after they were out of the picture. Everyone adored her and loved her father, but the predominately Saradominst town wouldn't tolerate anything more and considered it only merciful to overlook their children.

"What's wrong, dove?" Faewulf asked her when she came home, noticeably early, and threw herself into his arms. She didn't answer, not wanting to repeat what Jophera told her, both because it was terrible, and because he was the type of person to try to find the cat if he knew he had upset her daughter. He sighed and simply comforted her, knowing nothing in this world would get her to tell him if she didn't want to, and he was the first person she would tell.

When she did speak, she said meekly, "Why aren't there more wolves that live in the cities?"

He looked surprised, but he didn't seem to see things the same way as Jophera as he replied, "Because wolves are hearty and brave, and the idea of living within the confines of walls doesn't appeal to them. They need open spaces, and fresh air, and a sense of living life to its fullest."

"Why don't humans know of the wolf gods?" She asked him. "Why don't we have a church like the Saradominsts?" And the Zamorakians, she thoughts, but her father had already told her to stay away from the Zamorakian churches. She had a creative, unpredictable mind, but many people solely counted on the chaos that they could create through death and destruction, and not the entertaining chaos that came from a sharp mind and swift wit.

"Why would they?" He laughed. "You wouldn't care to know about farming if you spent your whole life mining in a dark hole—

"What about mushrooms?" She asked.

"If they want to farm mushrooms, then they can, but they'll figure it out without the knowledge of growing mushrooms being all over the place," he laughed. "That's what makes knowledge worth finding. Besides, ours is a grand cathedral, and it's all of nature! No matter what happens they can't tear that down even if they tried."

She nodded, looking a bit better, before she asked, "Why do humans lie about wolves and make them seem like monsters?"

His wide grin was suddenly gone, and he replied thoughtfully, "Where are you getting these ideas, dove?"

She looked down, and he sighed and continued gently, "Sometimes there are misunderstandings, and mistakes are made. Sometimes when you're not strong enough to protect those you love, you have to make your enemies believe you are before they can get the idea to hurt you. If they're afraid when they're facing you, then half the battle is won."

Delarn nodded quietly. Her father was a huge, imposing man, but he was also very gentle. He rarely fought if he could help it, and this wasn't counting when he was younger, and he fought in the north. Simply seeing a man like her father, a blazing red warrior, running at them at full speed, would make some of the heartiest warriors throw down their arms and surrender. Some would think the effect would be greater if he happened to also be a wolf, but there was something he had always told her. "Fangs are for the prey, and for protecting your family, but swords are fangs that are longer and know the softest parts of a wolf. Never fight an opponent as a wolf if they're not also a wolf if you can help it."

"There's also one more secret," Faewulf told her, breaking her out of her thoughts, and back to the present. "Man was once a beast like you and me, and man has always been jealous because they know they'll never be a beast ever again. Jealousy is as sharp a sword as fear, and twice as likely to strike as it is to run away."


	3. Gnomes

Delarn's back was firmly planted against a tree deep in the Piscatoris hunting grounds, trying to keep from falling apart, though her arms wouldn't stop itching. She didn't know what it was about having people that she could trust, but they took her places she wasn't sure she was ready to revisit. One of those places happened to be the Tree Gnome Stronghold, and she couldn't stop shaking no matter how hard she pushed her spine against the tree she was using as an anchor, trying to tell herself that she was currently further from that place than she was. She took shuddering gasps, trying to keep her head on straight, certain that doom was coming for her just around the next corner.

Eventually, she fainted, the panic too much, and images sprung to the forefront of her mind.

Her father had held her tight against his chest. One thing her father would always tell her is how he and her mother would travel all over the place, but when she had become pregnant with her she had been too sick to even walk most days. That's why they stayed in Varrock, and after that, it was because he was in a time of grieving, and then it was because she was too small to travel with him often. Now, however, he was gripping her against his chest and traveling through the tree networks to the Tree Gnome Village to get blazing drunk on fruity drinks.

She had to admit, however, that the first time she saw it she was filled with wonder. There was something majestic about all of it, and the people were really nice. Whenever they would call her cute she would fluff up indignantly, considering herself as tough as her father who was at least five times bigger than her—she wasn't really sure if that was accurate, but she thought it was close enough.

These people were so reverent of them that they didn't mind when Faewulf turned into a wolf—it was like water flowing for wolf shifters to shift between forms, her father would brag, and his obnoxious showmanship would only grow more apparent as he grew more and more intoxicated. He could drink like a furnace could burn charcoal, but gnomes were particularly good at making poignant concoctions, and it wasn't long before it was roaring through his blood. Delarn turned her nose up at the thought of drinking, finding her father, stumbling and doing tricks, to be less than dignified. She wouldn't even take the juice they offered her, not wanting to become intoxicated like her father was.

Instead, she settled apart from him, watching him from a distance. At the time she was too young to realize that this was a consistent date. That on this day, every single year, he would take her out of Varrock, and he would find somewhere with plenty of alcohol, and he would drink until he couldn't think straight. This insight didn't come to her for many years, in fact, until one year when it all flooded back, and she couldn't stop crying. This was a day or two after her birthday, the day her mother had died.

"It must not be very fun, being left out like this," one of the gnomes said to her. She jumped in surprise, and turned, and to hide her reaction she then began to stand straighter, trying to make herself look bigger as she puffed out her chest. The gnome chuckled at her and lifted his hands up obligingly, though later she would think this was a rather condescending way of appeasing her.

At the moment she felt rather proud, however, and then immediately awkward as she added, "Pa usually doesn't get this stupid when he drinks."

The gnome turned to watch the huge red wolf posing on the table and howling off-key, almost as if he hadn't been aware of him before now. "Quite unbecoming for such a fine specimen I would say. You seem much more dignified, much smarter."

She blushed, not knowing what to make of his words, "Well, I wouldn't say that. He's usually not like this."

"I suppose it's disconcerting to see someone you respect so much act like that, eh?" He replied, giving her a crooked smile. "Why don't you come with me for a bit? I can give you real food, and drinks that I can promise won't make you dizzy."

Delarn thought on it for a moment. She had asked her father exactly why they were coming here when her father had warned her that straying too far from Varrock was dangerous, and he had told her that gnomes were trustworthy overall and so he didn't fear for her here. He had told her that most gnomes were goodly folk. She knew her father wouldn't notice that she had gone as long as he was like this, and she really was hungry for something other than bar food. She nodded, and the gnome gently took her hand and began leading her away. She found the way he gripped her hand to be comforting, it feeling as if she could easily slip away if she wanted to.

Said decision became harder and harder to make, however, as her new friend led her through twists and turns that confused her. She began to feel uneasy as she realized she wouldn't be able to find her way back on her own. She could follow scents at a basic level, but something about the stronghold made her feel as if her scent wouldn't last long enough for her to follow it back. She felt comforted, at least, by the gnomes that walked by and greeted her, but soon even those disappeared as if they were coming to a place where gnomes normally didn't go. He brought her to an ornate, mahogany door, and for a moment curiosity overruled her worry.

The gnome released hand and smiled at her, admiring her expression, and told her, "Why don't you see what's inside, little sparrow?" He chuckled as she fluffed up in response, much like a displeased hawk, but her eyes were still planted on the door. She went over and began running her hands over the alchemical symbols with reverence, trying to decipher their meanings. For a little girl, they were simply interesting pictures that made her imagination run rampant and made her even more curious about what was on the other side of this door. She looked back at him for one last confirmation that she should open it, and he nodded encouragingly.

She turned the doorknob the moment she was sure she was allowed. There was an immediate hissing noise that made her hop back in fright, but the thing that really frightened her was the spray that hit her face. It stung her eyes a bit, and she whimpered desperately, trying to wipe it off, but then a dizziness came over her and wiping it off didn't seem so important. The gnome smiled at her, a notepad now in hand as he jotted down the effects on her. His smile seemed more distorted than ever the moment she hit the floor.

She didn't distinguish the time between when she fell and when she awoke—not really remembering falling asleep to her disconcertion—but what really surprised her were the thick leather straps that held her in place. She didn't quite recognize the place for what it was, though it was the room beyond the door. Unlike what she had expected from it, the room was very metallic, and there were tables filled with vials and other strange devices. She was laid out on a table on her back—an uncomfortable position for a wolf, especially one as frightened as she was—and she found she couldn't move.

He smiled at her, petting her head playfully, "What a pretty little wolf. How smart and brave you are? Aren't we a smart ickle thing?" He couldn't help but laugh as her breathing grew faster, signs of fear showing plainly on her face as well as her pulse. "Are we starting to realize our mistake, cub?"

"Take me back! Take me back now!" She cried, struggling desperately in an attempt to free herself, her heart racing. He could tell it was racing, his little device beeping in step with her heart. She looked horrified when she noticed the tubes going into her like wires, stinging terribly each time she jostled them with her struggling.

"Oh, don't worry. I will. Don't you dare think I won't. Old Faewulf, though a worthy subject, would tear through me and any restraints I might have for him like so many pieces of papyrus if he knew I had his precious daughter," he replied with a grin.

He injected something into the tubes, and she cried out, her limbs filled with something akin to fire. His mention of her father made her wonder why he hadn't noticed her missing. In her mind she had been unconscious for hours, more than enough time for her father to sober up, but really it had only been long enough for this gnome to set up this equipment of his and secure her firmly. After the fire she started to go numb, she was supposed to be numb.

He smiled as he made sure she was before going into more drastic experiments. He stuck her sharply with needles and other implements, seeming to take great pleasure when she yelped or squirmed or grimaced. "You must be wondering why this is happening to you," he teased, seeming to grow giddy with his task. "You probably woke up this morning thinking that today would be just any other day. You never could have imagined something like this could exist in the world."

She whimpered in reply and he chuckled, hardly blaming her for being a bad conversationalist at this moment, "Well the answer is quite simple. Gnomes and humans especially have a sense of freedom of will. Goblins, though stupid and dangerous, are stupid and dangerous because they have close edicts to follow. We higher races, however, have a delicious sense of freedom that determines whether or not we're good or evil, though no one in their right mind would say that they consider themselves evil." At this statement, he couldn't stop a peal of laughter from bubbling from his lips. If Delarn was the dreamer and not the child currently on the table, she might argue this, but she was the child now. Child Delarn who was frightened, and in pain, and prodded by sharp objects.

"That being said," He sighed, as her reactions becoming more delayed as the drugs set in, "Most people, whether they realize it or not, lean toward their more evil inclinations. A king will often be greedy rather than kindly, a pauper will put his own good before the good of the people to survive, and a scientist will consider the good that will come out of progress over the wellbeing of the individual tested upon. Children, I've found, are particularly cruel and self-centered, so their pain is easier to overlook for me. Consider this a well-needed lesson on the inherent evils of free will and consider yourself lucky if you find yourself under someone else's control."

With that, he plunged a nice and sharp scalpel into her abdomen and began tearing a sizable hole that made her shriek in protest, more from the tearing sensation than any real pain as she was no longer registering pain in the typical sense of the word. Her blood, dark and red, sprang up to meet the blade and this seemed to please him particularly. Once her organs were properly exposed—and she dared not move a muscle—he began exploring them, mapping out the differences in their locations to determine if there were any anomalies compared to common humans that made the shifting easier.

After he finished a fairly accurate map of her insides, he began roving her side with his fingers. This was a lesser known fact, but every wolf shifter had a particular nerve on their side that triggered their shifting reflex. "Wolf shifters come and go in Gielinor," he explained conversationally as he searched, smirking at her whine of discomfort, "But they're so scarce that not many people know about them. They come from over the sea, and they always end up here somehow. Their love of nature funnels them into any huge tree they can find, and I would say this is one of the better huge trees." He found her mark before she could respond—if she could respond at this point—and she gasped as the shift was forced upon her.

If a wolf without a hole in their abdomen could shift like a riving flowing, this felt like a shifting of rocks tumbling over a cliff. Even with the drugs in her system the feeling of changing was agonizing. He took notes with great interest as the tear he made sewed itself up incrementally, though not at all close to completely, and this implied that the shift, though not very much, was an effective way to heal small injuries such as cuts and the occasional bruise. If he wasn't required to return her to Faewulf without him knowing about any of this he would have tested more things, such as chemical burns and whether or not she could push out arrows with enough shifts, but he supposed this would have to do. "I imagine there's a bit of physical energy that's used up as well, that a whole and healthy shifter doesn't notice nearly as much," he murmured to himself.

He then continued his scientific administration, shifting her back and forth a few time—tearing her open again whenever the hole grew too closed to get a good look inside—to see the change in the location of her organs and any changes they may have. In-between shifts, when she was too worn out and looked on the verge of dying, he would give her a break by testing different concoctions that he would inject into her arms to see her reaction. It wasn't long before her arms were akin to a series of constellations, red dots, many red and angry, scattered up and down her limbs.

She wanted to plead with him, to tell him that she was just another stupid animal with edicts from her own gods that determined what she said and did, but that wouldn't have hit the point he was making. It was his own evil that she couldn't prevent or avoid, and she was the one that had to pay the price for said freedom. Soon she didn't have the will to even consider fighting against her fate. Finally, she was given rest in the form of a sedative injected into the tubes going into her arms, and he was honestly surprised her heart didn't stop altogether. He knew he had pushed it, had taken things a bit further than he intended. Even so, he knew this was an important lesson for her. He considered himself to be a saint for so aptly teaching it to her, and even sparing her life so she could keep the lesson with her.

When she awoke, she was wrapped up in a warm blanket in her bed in Varrock. She looked at her arms and her stomach, but any signs of abuse were gone. She was exhausted and the event was buried deep in her subconscious for the moment and registered as a nightmare soon after. Her father told her the next morning that she must have tired herself out playing in the Stronghold because when he found her, she was sound asleep in the corner as if she hadn't moved from the room. It wasn't until many, many years later that she understood her hatred of gnomes.

Before Delarn awoke, stirred by the voices of her fellow clanmates, she dreamed of an early return to the Stronghold. It had been a bloody affair, to say the least, and she could practically taste the blood in her mouth when she awoke though she didn't mention it to the people wandering around her, barely registering one strange mannerism of hers over another.


	4. Red King Part 1

Delarn, on her way home, stopped by the shop to pick up meat and bread. It reminded her of when her father explained to her that they didn't hunt not only because they couldn't while living in Varrock, but more because it was important to care for those who needed the coin more than they needed the meat. If there was one thing her father took great pride in, it was the well-being of his neighbors. He seemed to glow with pride whenever he would do something to help them in return. Delarn personally just liked how the woman at the shop would pat her head and sometimes give her candies.

"Have you been behaving for your father, Delarn?" She asked, a hint of a smile on her face, and the girl immediately puffed up as if insulted.

"Yes, ma'am, of course I have," she squeaked indignantly, and the woman patted her head indulgingly. The girl immediately settled down when the woman slipped a piece of candy in her hands.

"So has your father been well? Has he told you any new stories lately?" She asked her, wanting to know about her father more than anything else. She fancied him, to say the least, and found Delarn herself to be quite adorable.

"No new ones," she replied, not in the mood to tell any stories anyway. The woman nodded, her expression warm and soothing as she handed the girl the usual packages her father ordered beforehand. She felt a bit disappointed despite her friendly demeanor. He hadn't been coming by to get these things himself lately, preferring to send his daughter.

"Well I'm sure he'll tell you a new one soon," she cooed to hide her disappointment. "Make sure to keep up with your studies."

Delarn nodded, thanking her quietly—the words barely words, but recognizable as such—before heading on her way home. When she made it there, she was surprised to hear her father talking to a stranger. She opened the door slowly as to not alert their guest that she was there. Normally when a new person she wasn't familiar with appeared she would slip upstairs and wait for them to leave unless her father introduced her to them directly. She had felt nervous around people a lot more lately.

This time, however, she lingered in the doorway because her father was telling one of her favorite stories, though he was on the end of it. This at least gave her a moment to examine the man. He was clean, his beard trimmed nice and neat, and there was more than one holy symbol of Saradomin on him, including a shined and prominent silver one resting on his chest tied with blessed twine. She imagined the twine was blessed anyway. Everything was immaculate about him in every way, and he seemed to practically glow. Her father, with his untamable red mane and beard, and gritty eyes, smelling heavily of sheep hardly appeared to belong beside such a man.

"And I'll tell you that he was the toughest man that I've ever battled beside. A god among men if I've ever seen one. Raised by the ocean itself if I didn't know better—I'll be damned if he wasn't!—and he definitely commanded loyalty in any poor bugger he met, though they weren't any poorer for it! He could call upon noblemen and beggars alike. Spit in my eye if any man in this world considers himself his better! Surely the edicts of Guthix himself would have to be broken for that to happen!" Faewulf laughed boisterously, and the man across from him seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable the longer he rested there.

"That's quite a story," he replied, clearing his throat with a hesitant smile on his face. Most people, when they first met Delarn's father in his own home seemed overwhelmed upon speaking to him. Delarn considered this man was new to Varrock and its churches. "You said his name was—well, never mind that. I really must be going. It's getting late after all. Thank you for having me Mr. Faewulf." He seemed to swallow the name heavily upon saying it as if it were too frivolous for someone like him to say.

"Don't bother being so stiff with me. We agreed on being fast friends, didn't we? Call me Izara if you'd like," he said with a grin.

The priest muttered the name a few times as if trying to recall it like an edict in his holy book before nodding jerkily, a hint of a smile as he considered that this was meant to be an honor for him to know. Still, he didn't offer his own, and he seemed hurried about leaving, though Delarn acknowledged that maybe he already told her father his name and maybe really didn't like walking in the dark in a town he wasn't yet familiar with. She moved out of his way quickly as he made his way hastily to the door, and he only paused when he noticed her, giving her a gentle smile though he still looked harried.

"An interesting chap," he laughed once he was gone. "Selling some of his old Saradome." He didn't think that he would ever quite understand Saradomin but considered that to be fine as he swept his daughter up in a hug. "Thanks for getting the groceries for me, dove. I'll make us something to eat, and I've got to go check on the sheep. As much as I've gotten talking to that nice young man I'm sure one of them must have gotten into mischief."

She nodded, smiling happily as she cuddled against him, tugging playfully at his beard. This was the safest place in the world to her, and she couldn't imagine anywhere else to be, but she soon had to retire to the table while he cooked over the stove with great skill. She wanted to cook like him someday, with a sense of passion and curiosity in her hands as she moved about the kitchen, sampling all that they had at their disposal.

There was something special about the stew he made, something lighter and more filling with the bread he made with it that so perfectly soaked up the broth. After such a meal her eyelids were heavy, and her stomach was full. He smiled lovingly at her and held her in his big arms affectionately before shuttling her to bed. She settled into bed with great relish, barely registering a kiss on the forehead, or what her father told her before he went out to check on his flock. The present Delarn, the Delarn that was recalling so vividly, longed desperately to remember what he had said.

At some point late at night, Delarn awoke to a feeling of fright. She felt something dark and foreboding like a yawning maw twisting and searching out in the distance. This, though not overly common, was a well-known sign. A demon of some sort was being summoned somewhere out there. She whimpered and searched for her father, reaching out her hand to feel for him, though he wasn't there. She shuddered fearfully. Her father was a hero by nature, a protector of the people, and the first thing he did when there was something like a demon about was go out and try to take care of it himself.

Wolves, like most creatures of nature, have a strong fight or flight response, and when it called her father to fight he fought like the best of them. Demons were a particular talent of his, having keen senses for creatures of their ilk. Demons rarely lasted long with him around.

Still, there was a weightiness in her chest, a need for him to be there with her. It wasn't merely for her own comfort, though recently that feeling and need had grown in her. It felt like something was wrong, like something would happen to him if he were out tonight. The moon wasn't quite full, but it definitely cast plenty of light over the streets below, though she couldn't see them all too well. She wasn't good at seeing long distances, though on most days this didn't impede her.

She wrapped a blanket around herself and made her way shakily down the stairs, her legs still somewhat dumb with sleep, her hands finding balance against the wall. Her sense of night vision, at least, kept her immediate area easy to make out with the moon so bright. She settled at the table once she reached the bottom, waiting for him with a sense of uneasiness that promised that she wouldn't be able to sleep easily until he had returned.

However, after a while her body began to rebel, her senses no longer staying sharp as she began to feel drowsy. She didn't even realize she had fallen asleep when she was startled awake by the door opening. Though he didn't expect her to be there, her father didn't sound nearly as surprised to find her there. Maybe he expected it after all.

"I could have sworn I took you to bed first," he said with the hint of a laugh, but though he was trying to keep his tone joking there was something incredibly steely and ragged about it.

It was then that she could smell the blood. A man with so much natural red could pull off a bit of bleeding without it being noticeable, but what had happened to him was a greater contrast than any amount of red could hide. It dripped freely from him, leaving a trail. If she had been just a bit older, she might have been worried about the demon, might have worried that it would follow the trail of blood back to their door, but the demon was already taken care of. It wasn't the thing Faewulf was fearful of as he glanced furtively out at the moonlit streets before closing the door and locking it hastily behind him.

He had his back to her for a moment, and she could see the ragged claw marks along his upper right side, but that didn't so much catch her attention—though it was definitely gory and messy, thick and dark—not nearly as much as the silver bolt that clung to his left hip. She could practically hear it grinding against his pelvis, and the only thing that made her more fearful than leaving it in was removing it and having him bleed out. She had heard more stories than she could ever hope for in all her days about noble warriors fighting a noble battle just to return home and succumb to their wounds. There was something far more bitter and malicious about that bolt than those garish and macabre claw marks that were even now bleed like the demon that delivered them.

He chuckled nervously, feeling more powerless than he ever had with the knowledge that he couldn't hide the sight of her bleeding papa from his little girl. He never imagined that his stories carried any weight, and in a sense he was right, as no story carried the same weight as seeing the terrible wounds for herself. He moved stiffly to the counter and took out a series of herbs, and took out a few potions that were already prepared. He whispered a sharp, guttural prayer and the dark, foreboding claw marks seemed to grow lighter, or at least not any heavier.

He then plastered clean herbs over the wound, and though it looked incredibly uncomfortable for him, she didn't move to help. She knew as well as he that any help that she offered would merely be greeted with heavy rumbles and possibly even snapping. No, he didn't expect or want her to help him with this. Anyone helping him with something like this ought to be sure he was unconscious, or else be particularly hearty and stubborn about it. He had to have a hell of a lot of respect for them too, or else his humiliation would demand recompense.

What came next was the bolt, which he gripped with great deliberation. The silver didn't make it any more stinging than the fact that the use of silver was used to begin with, though he kept telling himself that it was for the demon, merely for the demon. As he wrestled with it, Delarn tuned him out, turning away, and only became aware of his struggle again when she heard his pained cry, barely human, indicating that he managed to tug it free. She watched the subsequent cleaning and wrapping.

He settled in the chair heavily across from her, hardly in any shape to move upstairs. He looked ragged, his yellow eyes holding something heavy that he didn't want to share with a little girl, but feared he had to. "You want to know what happened, don't you?"

She considered him with wide, appalled eyes for a moment, but she was undeniably curious about how her father—invincible and clever in his ways—managed to be so hurt on a night like this. She gave the tiniest nod, hardly sure even then.

He nodded, that hollow, steely voice she wasn't so familiar with grating it out for her, "That new priest, the one that I became friends with, was at the mercy of that demon. He didn't seem to know his left from his right out there, and it wasn't long before it had him on the ground. He wasn't moving, didn't even look like he was breathing. I knew that I didn't have a chance of keeping up mentally with a demon of that caliber. I had to shift, but I wasn't worried because he was unconscious. I'm not going to bore you with details, but I had it on its last leg. It was down and wasn't getting back up again, not if I had anything to say about it. It was then that that friend of mine stirred and saw me change to deliver the final blow with my lucky, blessed blade."

He shuddered a bit, "Well it was then that the bright lad shot me in the hip. I want to say that I didn't see it coming, but I literally did, glancing over my shoulder as he took deliberate aim at me before he did it. It didn't look like a lazy slip to me. It looked like he was making a decision and decided it needed to go somewhere into me. Well, I can tell you that a crossbow bolt entering your hip is a damned good incentive to lose your focus on pretty much anything, especially when it strikes a bone just right. That devil was on me the moment my legs went out. I didn't give him much, but he definitely gave me a good lacerating."

He shuffled a bit uncomfortably, as if he was hurting quite a bit, but didn't want to outright say it. He spoke to her like she was a bar friend rather than a little girl. He always did, but especially now. "Well I didn't take that sitting down, and so I finished that blasted demon off. Even after I killed it and it was gone, I could see him fumbling with the crossbow out of the corner of my eye. I gave him a terrible look, and he realized that unlike that devil I wasn't going to be so easy. As a wolf, you should know that a good stare is often enough to cow any enemy that isn't worth fighting or else backing down to."

Delarn nodded quietly and hesitantly went to settle beside her father, though she didn't want to hurt him so she paused a moment. The moment she drew close he checked his bandages swiftly before pulling her into his lap. He groaned, but tried not to make a big deal about the pain he was in. Even then she noticed him watching the door furtively.

"He saw me change and he took a shot at me. I may have made a mistake," he sighed, his eyes narrowed.

"Will we have to leave Varrock?" Delarn asked quietly, worried for her father.

His eyes were deep and thoughtful for a moment, but he was already shaking his head. "I have friends here, friends that know I'm a wolf and still have no qualms. The people know I'm honest and one measly Saradominist isn't going to change that. He was merely startled anyway. I'm sure I can talk with him and I can clear this up. He probably thought I was a hallucination brought on by that devil."

Delarn nodded, relieved, but her father continued to stare out the window, continued to narrow his eyes and shift uncomfortably in his chair.


	5. Red King Part 2

One of the most vivid things Delarn could recall from that morning—one of them—was that her father had insisted that she stay beside him. He hadn't felt up for the climb upstairs, and so he had settled on the cushions and had told her that she could sleep beside him that night. She had been surprised as he had made a big deal about teaching her how to handle sleeping on her own without falling out of the bed. Something felt different, and it frightened her, so she was more than glad to stay beside him. She felt comfortable listening to his heart beating, and it wasn't long before she fell asleep wondering if her own heart sounded like that.

Early the next moment he had accidentally woke her up trying to get up without waking her—an unprecedented row of failures for him. He gave her a look that told her that he was trying to decide whether or not to tell her to go back to sleep, and whether or not he should tell her where he was going. Still, he considered that it was better for her to know rather than for her not to know so he sat up gently and held her in his lap. He was still a giant of a man by any standards, though he seemed diminished in a way that frightened her. Her mind sparked with images of a lanky teen, still learning the ways of the world, dancing about their homeland and it made her wonder how a man could have once been seven and not just one. There were people with him then that wasn't with him now. He remembered telling her that once and a cloud had darkened his face like a storm over the shifty sea, but he hid this from her a second later and told her that they were always seven and a day would come when they would be seven again.

He also had told her that he was deathly afraid of the ocean, and a wolf that died at sea would never return to heaven again. That's how her brother had died. He had told this to her in one of those times when he forgot she was a little girl and not one of these holy seven—including him—who he could say anything to. There was him, her mother, his sister, the two lovers, his rival and—

"Father, who was the last of the seven?" She asked, and he looked shocked that out of all the things she could have said to break the silence it was that.

"It was—don't worry about that, my only child," he answered vaguely. "I want you to know a few things. This will be far into the future, and I'll teach you more of your heritage as you grow older, but there are people in this land that will seize your throat and shake you about before allowing that you are a noble Lyalltine, a wolf shifter. They will do anything they can to prove that you're a demon, but you have to prove to them again and again that you're more than that. Do it with any words you can and know that they'll still call you a fiend. You may even meet other Lyalltines that will make you believe that you're no more than a lowly hound, but they are fallen, and they know not what they do because we are not merely wolves, but also human. Humans have a way of getting their hearts twisted by this world in a way a wolf never can."

She stared at him with wide eyes, but nodded, unable to speak.

"If they call you a werewolf, pluck them from your fur like vampiric ticks and cast them away from you," he told her, gritting his teeth and gripping his side, the side where the bolt went in. "If they continue to pursue you dispatch them with righteous anger, but never allow yourself to lose faith among your peers, or they'll drown you."

Her shock only grew stronger. She had never heard him speak this way, and he never behaved as if anyone could wish him harm. Delarn, as she recalled this, wondered for a moment if it was perhaps him coming to realize the folly of his trusting nature in the moments before dawn began to smatter light upon the earth.

He heard them coming before she did and he held her, fear in his eyes that she wasn't allowed to see as he held her against him.

"Whatever you do, my lovely dove, my call of the forest upon the stony streets, stay back and hide your eyes. Don't look out the window and don't so much as breathe lest they smell your scent and send their hounds," he whispered, his voice low and desperate before he kissed her forehead and went outside, closing the door behind him quickly.

Despite what he told her, she rushed to the window, peeking over the bottom, barely visible though all eyes were on her father. A grand group had gathered around their door, dark faces watching him with wrathful intent. Most of them were faces she didn't recognize, brought in from the outside by the 'honest, young priest'. She later learned that they had their suspicions of her father beforehand and that the first priest had been sent to get close to him to find out what kind of man he really was and if there were any reason they would have at all to consider him a threat. To Delarn's young eyes this seemed like the first interaction her father had with these types, but his adventures had certainly given him plenty of time to bump into them.

An aged knight, his face exposed and his expression jovial and honest stepped forward. He looked neatly trimmed and his armor shined like he had prepared it for just this occasion. Everything about him drew her father's gaze to his person before the crowd about him as he spoke. "You're Izara Faewulf, the Red King as some might call you?"

"I haven't heard that in years," he replied in wonder, and a shade of worry was shed from his expression, and a smile started to spread across his face as he gave a friendly nod and began to open his mouth to explain this whole situation. Blood gushed forth instead as the knight's smile widened and he gave the signal, the man standing to his side handing him his spear which he pushed deep into Faewulf's stomach, leveraging it against the ground as he began to lift him, a heavy crossbar stopping him from sliding down it.

Death was thick in his eyes—he knew it wasn't going to be staved off for long—but he gripped the pole of the staff, already starting to slicken with his blood and making it hard to get a good hold. This seemed to summon two more knights that stepped in to do the same, both strikes mercilessly missing vital organs that would promise a quick death. Once these were in place, it made it easier to lift him without it simply moving through. He cried out in anguish that he could no longer stifle as he was pulled up into the air like a tattered banner. His blood, if it hadn't painted the streets before, turned the ground into a masterpiece of violence.

Those friends of his, those comrades who so lovingly called him to sup with them some nights, who drank his ale with gusto when he called on them instead, simply averted their eyes and muttered prayers. Not a single word of protest was uttered. Not a single man had any intentions of speaking against these shining lords who said it again and again, "IN the Name of HOLY Saradomin!" Those were the only words that Delarn heard. There was nothing but those words. She wanted to vomit, wanted to scream, wanted to hide her face, but she couldn't look away from the gory scene.

As he was raised up, his cried were greater and they were a mixture of human and wolf now. He changed desperately, like so many times before, as if to face a great enemy, as if to be the hero that survived the onslaught of thousands, but he wasn't prepared for this, dying with a warm greeting lost on his tongue. The knights seemed to congratulate each other with their eyes, slaying this monster that they had raised above the crowd like some macabre decoration that soaked their perfectly shined forms with specks of blood. Delarn, when she could take her eyes off of her father, so dishonored, could make out the people that they had known. They stared sullenly at their feet, looking like scolded children, their fists gripped at their sides, some with tears in their eyes that they forcibly wiped away. Not a word. Not an utterance. She thought she could hear laughter, mockery, shamed gasps, but definitely no words. Words were supposed to be sensible, weren't they? There was no sense in this.

When he finally settled he was just a wolf. Just a wolf. Just a wolf. He seemed more than that as the rising sun settled on him, his eyes empty of life, seeming to refuse to reflect her golden rays like they had so often done before. Had the sun felt spurned she may have struck down his enemies, but not even she seemed to speak fondly for him now.

She seemed to shatter at that moment. She forced herself away from the window and huddled under all the cushions he had settled upon, his unruly red fur and hair still adorning them. His scent was still thick on everything. She cried and sobbed silently, afraid that they would come for her next, and she fell into a troubled sleep. She felt like her heart might explode, might simply burst then and there. It wasn't sleeping so much as a forced shutdown. By the time she awoke, they were all gone. There was no one to speak of even in the streets as she hesitantly looked to find some semblance of order. Everything was dead silent, but all signs of what happened had been cleaned away.

When they saw her pass their curtains would close. Doors would lock. Voices would hush. As for her father, all traces of him were gone. His body was gone, and any papers he had kept in the Varrock library were firmly locked away in the vaults, not to see the light of day. That included papers on her. Where she would go. Where she was meant to be sent if this ever occurred. Delarn Faewulf wasn't even Faewulf anymore in the eyes of the state. She was just a nameless child. In a way, it was a mercy. Those who would wish Izara's offspring harm wouldn't know he had one to begin with. Those people who called him a friend in this city kept their silence.

She found herself making her way to the pub, that place where the outside world was just as likely to gather, adventurers that would act just as much as they always have, unaffected by local events. Still, even this place was somber, but there was a different weight to it. The one thing that immediately caught her eye was a man that radiated power and a drive that felt so much like her father's. He was slumped in his seat broodingly, nursing a drink that smelled heavy to her. She drew closer for a moment, wanting to actually see what he looked like. He smelled of the unforgiving north, of thick pines, and of a nobler war than she could ever imagine.

Still, as he turned—did he actually turn, or did she imagine that he might have?—she disappeared out the door, went away from that place. She hid in a place where no one would find her. It wasn't away from Varrock, but away from Varrock's eyes. Jophera came upon her, his eyes knowing, bragging, unapologetic, and she wept. Still, the cat settled beside her on her long, long first night without her father and that meant more to her than anything else as she let the sleep take over.


	6. Indulgence

Delarn, her cheeks red, wandered helplessly through the streets of Varrock. They may have spared her from the wrath of the Zamorakians, but now that her father was gone and his final moments were spent being killed like a criminal none of them paid her any attention. None of them looked her way even when they returned to the daily grind, and everyone that did look her way looked right through her like she wasn't there.

She recalled the shopkeeper, the woman that was so infatuated with her father, and showed up at her door, tears nearly running down her face. She was taken aback by her scornful look. She almost missed the hollow, ignorant look the others had given her. "Be gone from here, girl!"

"Please, I'm hungry," she whimpered. She knew her father had given her extra credit, that she at least owed her that much even if no one else was acknowledging her. "I'm hungry."

The woman scowled and lifted her broom at her, aiming to chase her away like a cur, but her eyes softened as the girl flinched away. She looked away, almost appearing ashamed as she muttered, "You're a devil now, girl, and if those hounds get a whiff of you that'll be it. Don't come around here again."

She whimpered but backed out the door. Before she could go the woman tossed a bag to her. It was filled with bread and dried meat, as well as sweets at the bottom. "We're even. Away with you."

She nodded quickly, grateful for even that much, even if she felt scolded by the woman's tone. She huddled in the slums, eating the bread ravenously, but wanting to save the meat for later. She scrambled to her feet when a shadow fell over her, and she realized that it was two of the Zamorakian boys that she used to play with.

"You're not ignoring me like the others?" She whispered, tears in her eyes as the taller of the boys, Solene, smirked at her.

"Don't you get it, Delarn? You're like us now. Don't you get it? They ignore us too, but we're not going to ignore you, alright? You were nice anyway, even before you were outcast, and your da was good too," he replied.

She began to tear up again, and he wrapped his arms around her quickly. She looked shocked, but she was glad that there was another human that would hold her. He eyed the bag curiously and asked her carefully, "What do you have there?"

"The last of my father's food," she replied hesitantly, not sure what to call it.

"Give us a bit of it, and I promise that you'll have plenty to eat later at our own parents' table," he told her, and the other boy nodded in agreement.

She looked in the bag and what was left seemed meager compared to what she had started with, and that made her reluctant to relinquish it, but his offer was appealing. It was just a little food for a lot of food later, as well as a place she might have to stay for the night. She could tell at this rate, with no way to get more food on her own, she would run out quickly unless she did some of the things her father abhorred such as hunting the flocks and herds of the people of Varrock.

It almost made her bitter, thinking that it would matter to him still, even after not a single one of them had helped him, though she knew it to be true. Even in death, he would be ashamed of her if he went against them.

She nodded, letting them each take a handful. It was a bit more than she counted on and it made her stomach twist angrily, but she didn't say anything more. She did hold the remainder tightly in her hand. Solene smiled and patted her head as he tucked what he took from her in his pocket before taking her other hand. "Trust me, you won't regret this," he said, leading her to a secret hatch leading her into the sewer, the other boy following close behind.

The heavy smell of the sewer made her head spin, and she could barely focus on the twists and turns he led her through before he was leading her up a ladder into a nice house with thick carpeting. A man sat in his chair, fast asleep with a paper in his lap.

"You live here?" She whispered, rubbing her nose, the smell of the sewer still stinging. She could see the door and wondered vaguely why they hadn't just used that instead of their strange shortcut.

"That's right," Solene replied with a smile just as a woman with a welcoming face and bright eyes came in.

"Oh? You've brought a friend home with you?" She asked.

"This is Delarn, the girl I was telling you about," he answered.

She walked over and lifted Delarn's chin up gently, looking her over. Delarn had never seen such soft, kind eyes in her life, nor someone so motherly. She immediately felt lulled by her sweet voice as the woman replied, "You poor things. It was a terrible thing for them to do to old Faewulf, but you can never trust those types."

She was on the edge of tears to hear someone acknowledge what happened to her father, and the woman wrapped her arms around her gently, letting her cry. She then led her to the kitchen and cleaned her face with a warmed towel. "You can stay here tonight, and I'll make you a nice dinner." Delarn nodded and stayed at her elbow as she cooked, not wanting Solene to see her face and think she was a silly girl for crying like she did.

She was glad she had shared what had been given with the boys, as what greeted her that night was practically a feast. Not even her father would make this much. It seemed nearly indulgent, and those at the table couldn't possibly have eaten it all. Solene's mother—that's who she was—and the man with the paper, his father, encouraged her to get as much as she wished. She was almost painfully full after this meal, and she wondered how Solene could be so lean with a family like this, especially if they ate like this every day. Surely it couldn't have been for her?

That night she was given a warm and comfortable bed, and she was grateful, so grateful, for that. She slept deeply, easily, glad that there was still some god looking out for her. She was awakened roughly in the middle of the night. That woman with the kind face was suddenly standing over her, but she didn't look so kind now. She looked clever and dangerous, but not kind. She wore Zamorakian style armor that smoothed out any motherly warmth into elegant curves. She and a couple of other men pulled her from the bed, bound her hands and covered her head, and they were soon moving through the sewer again. The sharp smell of it assured her that she wouldn't know her left from her right by the time she got to where she was going.

When the cloth was finally removed, she found herself in a wide, round chamber, a sea of red cloaks and dark armor. The ropes and hood were removed from her, and it was just the woman holding her there, but she was paralyzed with fear. It could be said about the wolf's psyche that they were not easily keen on sudden changes in their lifestyle, and the last few days had been nothing but changes.

The men that brought her here were talking with a tall, foreboding priest almost too far for her faulty eyes to see, but she couldn't make out what was being said. The room was a wave of sound that dizzied her. One thing caught her attention, and it was a strange smell, but one that was somehow appealing to her in a way she couldn't place. A nearby barrel was filled with black powder, and there was something about the scent that she liked so much that she discretely scooped handful after handful of the powder into her pocket for later. She observed the room for anyone that might notice, but their attention seemed to be everywhere but on her.

The room suddenly drew deathly silent as the priest raised his hands and beckoned for the woman to bring Delarn forward. He stared at her for a moment, studying her. She couldn't keep his gaze, afraid that he had taken notice of her theft. He nodded thoughtfully and then motioned for a man that stood nearby that had imposing muscles and a big axe to take her from the woman. Despite her sharp expression, the woman almost appeared regretful as she hesitantly handed her over to the man.

The hush turned into a rancor of sound, and it drew darker except for a few candles around a big center stone, but the priest's voice rose above the sound. It didn't offer her any clarity as he spoke a language she didn't understand. They didn't see the powder that leaked from her pockets as she was practically dragged, squirming in a desperate attempt to get free of him. There was laughter and jeering each time a flickering glimpse of her was given until the point where she reached the stone, at which point her fear was fully exposed.

The voices were raised in ecstasy as she was slammed against that sacrificial stone, and she felt like she would faint, her heart speeding desperately. The man pulled the ax from his shoulder and brought it careening down, but his aim wasn't right. It hit the stone beside her, bringing about bright sparks that landed haphazardly. She cried out, one spark hitting the powder that fell from her pockets and racing a trail back home.

The blast that followed was what it took to silence the jeering crowd, and the cries that followed were those of anguish.

She must have lost consciousness. I must have lost consciousness. What was next? What happened after that?

Delarn had found herself back in bed, but her skin stung like the fires of Infernus. She had tattoos etched in her skin that shown sharply—they were more like scars. That matronly woman, once more unlike that woman that dragged her from her bed, smiled kindly at her. "Do you know what you've done? Do you know what they're saying?"

She was tearing up again, but this time the woman didn't comfort her, she just kept speaking.

"They're calling you the chosen of Zamorak, a bearer of chaos. You lucky, lucky thing. Zamorak, the enemy, hated brother of Saradomin, has saved you," she replied softly. "Your father, Zamorak."

She stared at her wordlessly, still shaken and fearful, but nodded finally. Purpose. The bag of treats, the candy hidden at the bottom of the bag still there beside her. She still felt overly full, but she couldn't help but indulge.


	7. To be a Woman

Years passed, but nothing was ever still. Changes, constant changes. A little girl wasn't meant to learn to fight like this; that's what they'll say if they catch her. They'll shake their heads as they read her folders and realize that she was damned the moment her father made his first friend in Varrock. They'll bemoan the fact that her potential was wasted and they'll drop her in the reject bin with the rest of the dead children that were defective.

No, that wasn't Delarn's story. She grew stronger on the Zamorakian wine—as a manner of speaking—and became faster and cleverer. She wielded swords as her knitting needles, sewing a reputation for being unpredictable and violent. This was a façade, it had to be, but that didn't change things. She knew how to care for herself, and she knew how to fight, and she knew how to convince people otherwise when she didn't.

Solene admired her back, her grace, as she darted and danced through the castle of Varrock, lighting fires wherever they would catch to send a message of fear to those who would see them from the streets below. She wasn't about doing real harm, but she relished that those down below catching sight would be filled with dread at what might be happening. She laughed mirthfully as she imagined the flustered officials trying to explain away the danger, trying to reason with people beyond reason. She imagined the grief they would feel when those in the streets began to riot and tear into each other when the term "Zamorakians" eventually reached the lips of one of the people in the crowd. They would look at each other with such distrust. Which were sheep in wolf's clothing? She wore her identity on her sleeve. She wasn't a liar, she was an instigator.

Solene tried to touch her back. He never realized how beautiful she was when she was causing havoc. She specialized in burnings and fires. It was said amongst the other Zamorakians that she had a heart of ice, needed the fire to pretend she still felt heat herself. A reptile, a devil, unresponsive. The heart can become quite cold when all you've known is winter. She repeated it over and over as she overheard the others whispering, "She's such a b—

Beautiful! Solene thought as he watched her dodge and twist around the blade of an angry guard—her blood was red after all!—Zamorakian red that made him giddy until he realized he ought to be helping her. He moved forward to do just that, but he was a bit late as a shield smashed hard against her, sending her reeling back toward the edge of the wall.

It was hard to remember she wasn't alone. She was never alone; she was surrounded by people, but she'd be damned if she ever once felt like she was in anyone's company. It was a heavy thing to carry with her.

She shifted quickly, and it stopped him in his tracks. He had never seen this before, and it left his mouth wide open even as she used this technique of hers to regain balance and bite the exposed throat between chest plate and helm, this opponent similarly shocked, too shocked to respond. It didn't matter so much to her that his blood was as red as hers, or as red as Solene's. Nothing mattered to that cloud of fur that was as red as any blood that may splatter it, may blend with it becoming companionable finally. The rush of battle was her friend, receding any loneliness in one mass of primal destruction that made her heart beat faster than anything else could.

She was moving even before the dead man's corpse hit the stone. She moved too quickly to know that Solene was watching her. She recalled at a later point, when all of the sect knew about this, how some of them would think it was a great prank to accidentally shoot her and explain that they didn't know it was her. Of course it was her. Of course she kept tabs. Chaos had a habit of returning chaos. They wished they were never born after she recovered from the times when she had to be stuck in bed, healing from careless hits, left with heavy thoughts that wouldn't leave her about how much they found her as nothing more than a toy, a pet, a nothing.

Solene wanted to hold her down, wanted her to be his alone, and wanted all that chaotic energy for himself. He was fifteen, and she was thirteen, but that was good enough for him. She was the rarest, sharpest sword and no one else could wield her like he would.

He would hold her in his arms sometimes. He knew what kind of girl she was. She said she didn't need anyone, but she was secretly painfully lonely and desperate for any form of love. He liked that the most. He was the only one that could squelch that loneliness. He never touched her inappropriately when she was in his arms. Trust took patience to gain, to hone, and she was harder than most to gain the trust of.

King Roald spoke with her once, but he didn't sound like the king her father had been. He sounded foolish and inept. She swore she would make everything about his rule hell. She wouldn't do that to a leader she cared to have. There were no kings, only selfish men with gold on their heads. In return, he wanted her dead. She had to be killed for her impunity, and she had to agree, but she didn't intend to die.

Solene couldn't help but watch her as she bathed in the river a year later. Her blood was as red as ever as it floated down the stream. She considered as a wolf she was supposed to know all about the nature of the body, but she didn't even know what it meant to be a woman, let alone a wolf that knew those things. Her father didn't really give her all that much information on either. Solene looked rather proud as he approached her, his friend hiding nearby to watch. The same one as when they first met, or rather when she was first taken in? Lately, there were few faces she bothered to remember.

Her eyes widened upon seeing him, and he could imagine he could see the wolf inside those yellow eyes, wanting to get away. As it was, she was like a wolf frozen by the sight of encroaching fire, staring at him with dread as he swaggered closer, mouth quirked. She didn't move at first when he wrapped his arms around her, but this time it didn't feel like a comfort as his hands slid over bare skin.

"I know you're a wolf. I saw it for myself. I won't tell anyone—that is if you don't. You're smarter than you look, aren't you?"

His blood was red. It was vibrantly red as it mixed with her own blood in the stream. He swore he wouldn't tell anyone. He was right, but someone else would. She didn't know that the secret was already out. He wouldn't bother doing something already done. His corpse would wash up rather smoothly on the shore of Edgeville. Those people always appreciated a good, mysterious corpse.

There was something she had learned with great certainty as she grew older. A disarming smile could get a person the world. The smile she would give to a boy that just witnessed his friend being killed in a single heartbeat before he suffered the same fate, the smirk she would give to those Zamorakians that would press her for the secrets of immortality she didn't have, the amused glint she would have for a guard that insists that her death would take her to a dark, empty place. She couldn't let it get under her skin. She had to keep out the outer appearance no matter what she did.

Decari in the present would awake with tears in her eyes, but if anyone asked her what was wrong, she would smile at them and answer, "Nothing at all."


	8. Sea Bears Part 1

It's hard to stay in one place, a place that kills all hopes and dreams, but sometimes there just isn't a choice. Held down, screaming all around, a mercy if they would strike quickly. Some would call that a pity, but Delarn, unloved and alone, wouldn't think so. She was surprised when she awoke in a cell. She was also unaware that she was in a cell. It was darker than sin, and all she knew was that she could barely move. She cried out, in a state of panic until someone from the cell next to her reached through the bars and struck her.

She was stunned, sitting there and trying to register what had happened, but the voice from the cell next to her was apologetic. "Sorry, lass," they murmured, "But I didn't want you to hurt yourself."

"What is this? Where am I?" She whimpered, sounding like a little girl, though she was nearly sixteen.

"You're in prison, luv," he replied with a chuckle, watching her cast about fearfully. "You can't see?"

"No….no….No," She whimpered, her voice starting to raise in panic. The place smelled of urine, and the corridors echoed with a thousand individual drops of water. Normally, when she had the hints of hearing and smell her less than perfect eyesight could distinguish what was around her, but here she could recognize nothing, or rather everything at once. It was too much for her, and she couldn't stop shaking.

"Hush, girl," he hummed, "Hush, hush. You're fine. Come here. I have a present for you." His voice was so reassuring that she didn't argue. His gentle voice felt like the only thing that was keeping her grounded and sane at this moment.

She came even with his cell, and though she couldn't see him, he flashed her a toothy grin before pressing something into each of her hands. One was a block of wood and the other a makeshift knife. The knife was sharply honed, and it cut her finger a bit as she held it, but she didn't relinquish her grip. His voice was soft as he instructed her, "Now don't let any of the guards see you with that, and don't use it against another man. Can you feel the wood? Can you feel the shape hidden inside it?"

She wasn't sure she understood what he was saying, but she found as she focused on running her hand over the grain she was distracted from the other things around her. "Yeah, I think I do."

"Good, then carve it out," he replied, reaching through the bars and guiding her hands, showing her how to begin and then instructing her once she started to figure it out. The more she worked on this, the more she was beginning to understand what he meant about finding a shape inside the wood, and she realized that it also passed the time. It kept her busy and kept her mind sharp as she also had to watch for the guards. She didn't know how, but the man always managed to get more wood for her.

After many days of this, there came a day when she heard someone else talking in the cell next to her. They sounded younger. "Wow, Cannoneye, you cut a fine hole through. It's a good thing you're skinny as a rack."

"Aye," he replied. He had cut a sliver into the wooden boards between the cells big enough to squeeze through. "Don't forget little red Wood Wolves over there. I wouldn't have been able to hide it if not for her."

"Oy! How does a doe-eyed girl like that get in here?" The younger man muttered. "Girl, you're young, right? I bet you're dexterous too."

"She has my knife; she can handle the picking," 'Cannoneye' added.

"Aye, I can imagine," he answered. Delarn was stunned, but he snapped her out of it, his tone sharp as he added, "Well come on then! Do you want out or not?" She nodded, going to the cell door. She could make out the mechanisms after so long in the dark, and she found it fascinating.

"Alright, lass. We're going to walk you through this." His voice was quiet, but she could still make out what he was saying as he walked her through unlocking the door without breaking the knife. The blade was very thin, and she could easily imagine breaking it off in the lock.

The moment she was free Cannoneye took his knife back, and they took an arm on either side and pulled her along. "Cover your eyes, lass," he instructed as they made their way out of the prison and into the open air of Port Sarim. She barely had any time, and the light still stung as it seeped through her fingers. The two pirates moved with the certainty of men who had walked this route many times before, and so they didn't need to see.

"We got him, now let's get out of here," the young man told a few other pirates that were busy carrying crates and supplies they had nicked while docked. The next thing she knew she was being tossed into a rowboat, heading on a course for the great and terrible ship she would later know as _The Seven Sea Bears._ She managed to squint long enough to catch a glimpse of it, though the light reflecting off the water didn't help. She had never seen anything so huge and daunting, with a vicious bear figurehead. This bear put all others she had seen before to shame.

Despite how frail and bone thin Cannoneye appeared, he rowed like a god of the sea and gave her a nearly toothless smile when he caught her watching him. She wasn't worried yet. She assumed they had taken her with them to assure she wouldn't be caught again. She assumed they would drop her off at another port. Still, there was something strange and disconcerting about watching Port Sarim grow farther and farther away.

When they came nearly even with the great, devious pirate ship, she felt nauseous at the sight of the water crashing against the sides of that great beast. A rope net was thrown over for them to climb up and after the two—she later learned that the younger man was called Rabbit—secured the rowboat Cannoneye barked at her, "Go on up, lass!"

"I'm scared," she answered, and she was, the ocean seeming much more frightening this far out. "I've never climbed up one of these before."

"You'll have more to worry about then climbing a blasted rope if you don't get on it," he seethed, and she was dumbfounded by this evident change from the quiet man in the prison cell. She nodded shakily, leaping and grabbing onto the twined netting, though she nearly slipped and lost her grip from the way the ship never seemed to stand still in the roiling waters. The way it swayed made her feel sick to her stomach, and made all those fast-paced raids in Varrock fill like child's play, her movement infuriatingly slow.

The old man, with practiced ease, managed to start climbing up on the left side of her. He snorted derisively and took a good bit of her prison cloak and began dragging her up the side of the ship like a pup, moving as if it barely hindered him and tossing her over the railing. Once he came up beside her, he mussed her hair and chirped, "Good work, lass."

She nodded nervously, hardly able to stand. She looked around, seeing the others climbing over the railing also, but they were managing to pass up crates. If she didn't know better, she almost felt as if she were stolen treasure as well. She could see Rabbit talking to what was undeniably the captain of this vessel. She was a good foot or two taller than the rest, and despite her captain's garb, her muscles were very definable. She heard the young man say, "Wolfwood," before pointing in her direction.

The captain shot the old man a dirty look. "Cannoneye! Did I not tell you to bring me a woman from anywhere but the prison?"

"You know me, ma'am," he replied cheekily, "I tend to take the initiative with my orders, and take where the getting is good. If you don't like her, then you can toss us both over."

She glared at him, but he was the only one who could get away with speaking to her so bluntly, especially since he was usually right. She marched over to where Delarn was still trapped on deck, not yet able to catch her balance, and it wasn't long before the intimidating woman's lip curled up in disgust, showing off serrated teeth. She seized the front of Delarn's shirt and lifted her up so they were eye level.

"A wolf?" She thundered. "You brought me a wolf?" Delarn couldn't stop herself from whimpering, the beast shaking her with each word. "Where is your pack, runt? Think they can swim?"

"I don't. I don't have one," she cried, trying to wiggle free.

"Of course you do! Your kind doesn't leave the homeland without a group of you. What? Did they abandon you in that prison, runt? Are you trash even amongst wolves?" The woman spat.

Her expression was one of confusion, and from that fear, as she murmured, "The only other wolf that I know like me was my father, and he died when I was little."

She paused thoughtfully, lowering her just a bit as she answered, "You're a welp from a failed pack. You have no idea what the homeland is like because you were never given a chance to return to it. You don't know a damn thing about the ocean, I'm betting, and all you've known is that isolated country."

She nodded hesitantly, feeling terrified of this woman with her dark eyes and cruel expression. She laughed and dropped her roughly to the deck, knowing she wouldn't be able to move just yet. She returned with a heavy, steel and leather collar that she snapped around her neck and locked. Delarn stared at her, bewildered as the woman brushed her hand—sharp claws teasing her scalp—through her hair. "Wolfwood, you're mine from now on. You will address me as Beraliska— _Master_ Beraliska."

She swallowed heavily, not yet knowing what that meant for her, but knowing that a pit was quickly forming in her stomach.


	9. Sea Bears part 2

It didn't take Delarn long to become homesick for land. Weeks at sea passed with no sign of anything but water. She grew to hate the endless waves, promising her that she wouldn't be returned to land for quite some time. At least she had learned how to move across the deck without falling or flailing or crawling like she did the first few days. She often helped around the ship in order to dull the monotony during the times when the Captain's interest wasn't on her. Most of the crew members appreciated her efforts, though it was made clear that she wasn't to be given a job. She was there to entertain Beraliska, and she wouldn't be able to do that if she was caught up in a task.

She normally avoided her, but she could hear her voice, quiet and insidious, coming from the kitchen. She avoided the kitchen as well when she could, the cook eyeing her like the next meal whenever he would catch sight of her. Still, her curiosity got the best of her, and she found herself peeking in. She could see the cook trembling, and she couldn't blame him with how the Captain towered over him, the pot popping and sizzling behind him.

"Do you think you can feed this slop to my crew?" She hissed at him.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he mumbled, "But we're out of meat. Nothing is biting. What am I supposed to do?"

Her lips curled cruelly, and Delarn's eyes widened in horror Beraliska swiftly brought her clawed hand down to shred his chest, leaving long and bloody gashes down his front. He looked too shocked to even register what was happening as he was shoved back and into the pot, and Delarn heard the horrific sound of hissing flesh meeting boiling water. She could have sworn she heard him scream, a terrible shriek that split her ears.

Bile raced up her throat, and Delarn immediately turned to race away. Beraliska's voice cut through her, stopping her in her tracks as she ordered, "Delarn, come here."

She stood still for a moment as if staring down the bolt of a crossbow, before turning slowly and moving to stand just out of reach. "You called, Captain?"

She smiled sweetly and purred, "Why don't you come closer? I adore that expression you're making." Delarn thought Beraliska's expression made her look like a fiend conversely. The hissing pot was causing every hair to stand on end, but she moved stiffly closer. The moment she was within reach Beraliska took her arms and pulled her close to her side, and her heart leaped in her chest with how close she was now standing to not only the popping liquid but the volatile woman.

"Tell me, Wolfwood, how good are you at cooking?" She hummed in her ear. "It seems we won't have a cook until we dock again in the next few of days."

Delarn felt a surge of relief at the promise that they would, in fact, be returning to land, but horror at the thought of cooking, especially after witnessing what happened to the last cook. "I-I c-can't," she replied, shaking her head quickly, everything inside of her swimming precariously with terror.

The Captain simply gave a grating laugh, her lips brushing her ear as she leaned in and whispered, "but that means I can teach you how. Delarn shivered violently, knowing she was smelling hair, but she knew things only escalated when she tried to push her away.

"Didn't he say there wasn't anything to cook?" She dared to ask, wanting any excuse to get out of this situation.

"I'll make sure to take care of that," she hummed. She changed her hands to paws and plunged it into the boiling oil to drag out the unfortunate man's arm, twisting it off with a sickening crunch.

Delarn appeared mortified, trying to twist away with a sharp gasp, but Beraliska held the back of her neck like a wriggling cub, tearing off a piece of the meat with her teeth. She then pushed the meat to Delarn's mouth, shoving it against her teeth and forcing her jaw until she ate it, holding her mouth shut afterward so she couldn't spit it back out. Delarn, however, was beyond fighting to remove it, struggling to swallow it down.

The Captain made sure her legs wouldn't give out beneath her as she kissed her cheek and finally let her go. "Make sure to watch this. I'll be very disappointed in you if you let anything happen to it." Beraliska was laughing as she left the room, leaving her shaken and uneven as she wondered what would come next. She did not make a single complaint that night when she was finally relieved of her duty and given a bowl of stew with the rest of them.

"Good work," Rabbit murmured as he brushed past her. "This is delicious. What did you use?"

"I—the Captain did most of the work," she replied meekly, and he merely smiled at her.

"I told you that you'd be fine," he answered. "See? She likes you."

She swallowed heavily but didn't answer, not wanting him to know just how right he was, and how much she wished he were wrong, though if she were honest, she doubted she would still be alive if it were otherwise, and so she let it pass.

The next morning, the thing that stirred her from her sleep was an awful scream, and as she got up and the images from the day before flooded back she was surprised she hadn't suffered a nightmare.

She stumbled quickly out to the deck in time to witness a spectacle of sorts. Beraliska had one of the crew members she didn't know very well in her grip, though perhaps that was the reason he was being used. She held him over the rails, and he bled freely to the sea below, driving the sharks into a frenzy. As soon as the sharks were driven properly mad, she pulled him back in and began tying a rope around him, attached to a crude crane at the other end. Delarn could hear him begging and pleading even now despite the amount of blood he must have lost, his face awash with tears.

Delarn swallowed nervously, finding herself pushing past the other crew members who all watched in silent horror. Some of them, notably Cannoneye and Rabbit, were quite at ease. They were hardly threatened as her favorites, and none would dare argue with the monstrous woman and her inner crew.

She was suddenly in the front of the crowd rather than the back, and she felt her words pouring out of her mouth, though she didn't know what she was saying. The man seemed even more horrified at her words compared to his chances with the sharks, crying out, "No! Please, please stop! I'll do it! Just quiet down!"

Beraliska paused in her tormenting to turn a horrible eye on Delarn, appearing almost as if she didn't recognize her as the speaker, her gaze filled with malevolent intentions. Delarn did her best not to wilt under that gaze as she finally said, trying to keep her voice steady, "I—tie me to the rope and give me something sharp and I'll catch them for you."

She scoffed, "Wolfwood, you don't know what you're saying. You're not skilled enough to catch them." She appeared almost disturbed by Delarn's compassion for a man she barely knew.

"Let me do it," she pleaded, hot tears running down her face. She could hear people muttering uncomfortably behind her, but she didn't care.

Beraliska could hear unrest bubbling up in her crew like a festering wound, and she didn't like the feeling. She narrowed her eyes at Delarn. "Fine. I'll give you a shot, but don't be telling lies about my ship to the Sea Kings if you come out the worse for it."

Delarn nodded slowly, moving up to her as the intimidating woman slowly unwound the rope from the hapless man. She gave Delarn a bitter look as she tied the rope around her like a vest so she could still move her arms, but wouldn't have to worry about it coming undone. Delarn grimaced as Beraliska pulled the ropes a bit too tight at first before pulling out her scimitar and handing it to her.

"You'll have something worse than sharks to deal with if you drop this," she growled before shoving her over the rail a moment after she was certain Delarn had a good grip on the blade. The moment the rope met its end and went taut the blade was nearly jolted from her hand. Her vision swam as she tried to get back the breath knocked out of her, and the Captain watched her gape like a dying fish until the moment she was certain she wasn't going to black out. She then started to turn the crank, lowering her down slowly.

Delarn shrieked in terror as one of the sharks leaped from the water, coming a hair's breath away from biting her. She had quickly lashed out, leaving a gash on the shark's side and adding to the red mess below as the remaining sharks further frenzied. Her arms felt weak as she watched them below, and so she gripped the blade in both hands. The next time a shark leaped at her she was prepared, lifting the blade over her head and plunging it in deep. She could feel insidious hooks in the smooth metal snaring the beast, and its struggling nearly retched it from her grip. It made her dread what the blade could do to her personally.

Delarn felt like she had spent an agonizing amount of time holding the shark there, but she could hear Beraliska muttering in a language she didn't understand, and before long the shark and blade disappeared from her hand and appeared again on deck. She was dragged back up just as another shark had snapped where she was a moment before. Everything seemed to have muted around her, and she could vaguely hear Beraliska telling her that she would show her how to cook this as well.

After a few days, Delarn felt a lightness in her heart as she spotted land, and she was the first to let everyone know about it too. It wasn't the land she knew, but it was land nonetheless, and she felt glad to see it. She didn't even feel nearly as worried when Beraliska put her hand on her shoulder, leading her back to her room, feeling that she could endure with land so near. She squirmed as she was sat down on the bed and a heavy metal ring was attached and locked to her collar so she couldn't simply take it off.

She felt almost dumbfounded as the devilish woman merely planted a kiss on her forehead and walked to the door, leaving her there.

"Rest well while I'm off to gather supplies with the boys. I'll want you ready for when I return. I'll need to blow off some steam and adrenaline," she teased.

"You're not going to take me ashore?" She practically screamed though it came out as a quiet whisper, anger overshadowing the usual nerves that came with such talk.

"Not until you're properly broken," she replied nonchalantly. "Consider this a punishment for speaking over me in front of my crew, my lovely Wolfwood. That sort of talk is only acceptable in this room, and only if I allow it."

With that she closed the door, leaving the room darkened except for a window that gave her a clear view of the land she craved along with the scarce light. She screamed angrily until her throat was raw, knowing that in this room the others couldn't hear it, or would pretend not to. She almost hoped they would. She hoped the unrest settled deep among them, screaming in protest.


	10. Sea Bears part 3

Delarn, from that point on, most assuredly made sure to know each crew member very well. She was very kind and she was very keen to do any job she was given, taking them spitefully until she knew each one and knew how to do each job with relish.

"Girlie," Cannoneye laughed, "I've never seen anyone work so hard. What are you about?"

"I don't know what you mean," she replied casually, settled between two men that eyed Cannoneye suspiciously in a way the old man never dreamed he would see. Dark clouds had been building for days now, making the atmosphere eerily dark.

"You're going to be crossing lines, and don't be crying to me if you do. Beraliska is a jealous woman, and you know it," he sneered. "Someone is going to get hurt."

"She can't get rid of her entire crew," Delarn replied arrogantly, sitting a bit taller. "That would be foolish even for her."

"Girl," Cannoneye hissed, his voice low and his eyes casting about, "Don't you dare speak of our Captain in such crass tones! It'll be you on the cutting block, you who'll get it!"

"What can she do to me that she hasn't already?" She snapped back rebelliously, though she was indeed the one person in all the world that Delarn feared the most, short of a god, and the gods would never reach her in this lifetime.

Cannoneye's bared his teeth at her, what was left of them, and told her, "You don't know what you're asking for, girl, but you'll know it well by the time she's done with you. Count your lucky stars, girl."

She watched him go with a frown as the man to her left began to pet her head gently. "The old man is dinged in the head. What is she going to do to you? You've been doing more on this ship than she ever has in all her days."

"That's right," she replied, comforted by his words, though she felt a sharp twisting in her stomach that warned her that bad tidings were coming. She stood slowly. "I think I should get back to work."

The moment she walked away from the two, she could hear the violent ripping of the same man's head coming off and turned quickly to see Beraliska standing over her, her eyes sharp and dark as she tossed the detached head away a moment before his body hit the floor. Her tone was like sharp knives sawing through her bones as she growled, "You seem to have taken a liking to the jobs of those that are meant to be doing them. I thought maybe you wouldn't like so much competition."

She was shivering as she stared back and the next moment she had closed the distance between them, striking her across the face. Beraliska looked startled for a moment, hardly expecting anything of the sort from anyone, let alone someone like Delarn. The next moment she was swelling, fur sprouting across her body as her paws clamped down on Delarn's shoulders, claws digging into her. Delarn screamed and changed as well, biting into Beraliska's shoulder, eliciting a wail of anger. Blood gushed noticeably down the imposing beast's shoulder in a way that didn't show so easily on the wolf's dark red coat, and the ocean seemed to resonant the sudden burst of violence, the waves slowly becoming wilder as winds were picking up.

There were cries of alarm from the crew as another threat approached, quick and fast, and the sound of cannon fire was only deafened by the sound of the ocean roaring around them, and only by the blood pounding in the combatants' ears as they both did their best to tear apart the other. Though Delarn was the one that shown the most success, it was Beraliska that was the closest to victory. The ship swayed and bucked as the crew frantically tried to do their best to avoid the wrathful stranger's approach. If only they had Delarn to tell them that it was the royal seal of Falador here to rain hell upon them!

Delarn could feel the first drops of rain hit her back like pellets, striking like tiny fangs over and over, and the loss of blood left her grip on the bear's pelt weak and so it didn't take much more effort for Beraliska to rip her off and slam her down on the deck, the impact too much for her in wolf form, landing on her back as she did, and so she shifted back quickly.

Beraliska's fangs were terrible to behold as she bared her teeth at her, and she moved forward quickly to bite out her throat, but she paused as if it occurred to her that she wasn't quite finished with Delarn. Instead she shifted back and wrapped her hands around her neck, beginning to strangle her. She struggled beneath her, trying to get free. She didn't believe that she intended to kill her, but she was certain that if she allowed herself to lose consciousness it would all be over. Her hands flailed helplessly, grasping for anything that could save her, trying to catch sight of a crew member that may be courageous enough to lend her a hand. Of course they were all working diligently to keep the ship afloat, none of them so focused on the battling fiends in the middle of the deck any longer. What timing was this!

Her left hand suddenly wrapped around something located on Beraliska's right hip. She didn't register what it was at first, but having it in her hand just once was enough to impress its identity onto her. By now her vision danced with black specks that were growing by the second, and her body shivered with the cold of the rain that didn't seem to penetrate this devilish woman's skin at all. Dragging it from its scabbard may as well have been like swimming up from the bottom of the sea with the anchor tied to her wrist, but at some point the blade slid from the scabbard, and then went forward into flesh.

Beraliska straightened in horror, almost as if she didn't really understand what had happened, and stared down at her blade protruding from her side as Delarn tried to catch her breath, her neck free from the pressure that was being imposed on her. The Captain gripped the hilt as if she meant to tug it free, but her face was pale and she knew exactly what would happen if she removed it.

"Summon it….to your hand. It'll be….fine," Delarn gasped, trying to catch her breath still. She was only now starting to feel the chaos occurring around her, the rushing of people, the strange twisting in her gut at the idea of this woman dying by her action after so many nights spent with her, when all she wanted was to despise her.

She glared at her, but her eyes was filled with terror. "Fool…fool! You don't understand! You've doomed me!" There was something terribly pitiful in her tone disguised as rage. It was…a sense of betrayal, and it twisted Delarn's heart with guilt as she stood slowly. "Please," the woman rasped, reaching for her, "Please just…just one more…"

Delarn shook her head and started to take a step. Whether it was forward or back, it wasn't her decision. The ship heaved violently the moment she lifted her foot to step, and she found herself losing her balance and stumbling backwards. She hit the rail and reached desperately, registering that she was going over the edge a moment too late. The rail was just out of her grasp as she reached for it, and she could hear Beraliska murmuring a curse. She knew, she knew, she knew that she would never again have any luck at sea for however long she may live.

She then hit the water.

Intense, intense cold.

She felt so, so numb, and her blood clouded around her. The storm scared the sharks away. She hoped so, but at this point she was sure that she wouldn't feel their teeth, wouldn't feel them tearing her apart even if they were even at this moment. She watched the surface with detached understanding of what was happening. Another form hit the water. Rabbit. He was swimming toward her, but his progress was halted. That dark, strange ship had fired her harpoon and it tore through him. Beautiful chaos. Blood everywhere in a gorgeous cloud of blue, black and red.

The darkness was quickly closing in around her, and she couldn't even cry. She remembered a story that her father told her.

Wolves couldn't return to their wolf hall, their paradise, if they died in the clutches of the water.

It all went black. Sweet, merciful darkness.


	11. Taverley Intermission

Intermission

Delarn dozed contently at the edge of the water in Taverly, perfectly at ease in her wolf form, her tail swishing slowly and one paw in the deliciously cool water. The sun on her red fur was warm, and there was a cool breeze. The perfect summer day. A tabby cat wandered closer lazily, slowly, batting at her tail playfully with a purr before settling against her side, her huge, blue eyes blinking slowly. Delarn stirred, acknowledging the cat with a slow blink.

"Hello, fuzzy face," Mulo mewed, tapping her nose with a paw. Delarn sneezed and twitched her ears in amusement as the cat continued, "I can't imagine how such a beast as yourself can settle in Taverly."

"I don't know what you mean," Delarn answered with a yawn.

"You smell like the outside world, like smoke and decay. You smell like chaos and fatigue and death in May," the cat hummed, tail swishing.

"Of that you're not wrong, but the war between the men and the trolls carries on," Delarn replied. "This is no longer a peaceful place, it seems."

"It's peaceful enough now, and here you, sleeping peacefully with a flower crown," the cat rejoined, claws gently snagging one of the flowers that one of her dear friends braided there.

"Then why don't I tell you the story of why I love my fair Taverly so," Delarn yawned, lying her head on her paws as if she would rather fall back to sleep.

"Is it one of those violent tales you tell after awaking from a nightmare? One of those stories of war and glory that you stay up all night writing because your head isn't quite right?" Mulo teased, brushing against her fur thoughtfully.

"No, not this time," she replied drowsily, and soon she was murmuring her story sleepily.

Delarn whimpered, huddled under a bush of sweet smelling flowers. A wooden nail had lodged in her paw and she could no longer run. She had just recently crossed the gate into Taverly, being pursued by a number of white knights, and she was sure they would catch up to her here and now.

She froze, barely breathing, as she heard a pair of men talking suddenly, like a loud explosion in her ear though one talked quieter than the other. She liked the sound of that one's voice.

"What brings you to our fair home?" The young druid asked in a calm, quiet voice. "I never knew a group of knights to stray so far from Falador in such lively armor without a cause."

"A wolf. We're pursuing a wolf. Have you seen one come this way?" The other thundered, the leader of the knights that hunted her.

"A wolf you say? I'm sure there are plenty of wolves around here, seeing how close we are to the White Wolf Mountain," the druid answered gently.

"You'll know this wolf when you see it," the knight growled. "It has the reddest fur you've ever seen. She's a witch if I've ever seen one."

"Red fur? I don't follow. The name of our mountain range is 'White Wolf' for a reason. Perhaps you should return to your fair city and rest. Your fine knights seem to be the worse for wear," the young druid rejoined, a hint of amusement in his tone, "At this point you'll be seeing red all over the place."

The knight indeed started to appear redder himself, but there were other people now observing him, locals, concern in their eyes. He knew he would be a laughingstock in Falador if news of this blunder returned there, and he knew that wherever Delarn may have ended up she was certainly out of his reach for now. She would return eventually. She always did. He turned and ordered his knights back to Falador, casting an angry look over his shoulder. She could imagine that his eyes had fallen upon her, but she couldn't see him from where she was. He was simply too far away.

Soon after he was gone, the young druid drew closer to her hiding place. He didn't move with much deliberation, but he definitely drew closer each time he moved. Delarn bristled and growled, drawing deeper into the bush when his hand suddenly appeared in front of her, reaching slowly for her nose. He withdrew his hand carefully, not wishing to be frighten her, and left her alone for a time.

She didn't know that she fell asleep after, but when she awoke she found a piece of meat filled with herbs under her nose. Usually she would try to be wary of such gifts, but the scent that came from it was irresistible to her wolf nose, and it had been a while since she had managed a proper meal. Eating it immediately made her feel light and sleepy, her muscles relaxing, and it wasn't long before she fell into a sort of restfulness, not quite sleep, but not quite waking. It didn't bother her at all when the druid from before and a couple of other young men carefully pulled her from beneath the bush and carried her inside one of the earthy houses.

She was placed carefully upon a table, her paw extended as the blood coming from her pad was noticeable compared with her other three paws. She could barely feel anything at all so it didn't bother her how they swabbed and picked at it until the nail and splinters were cleaned out and a nice linen cloth was wrapped around it to keep it clean. After this was done she was placed in a basin and they ran warm water over her. Blood and dust ran off her, and it made it look as if her colors were running as this settled at the bottom of the basin. The Guthixians looked silently between each other, filled with wonder as they revealed a map of scars and markings beneath the messy fur.

Delarn's tail swayed drowsily as they gently ran their hands through her fur, scrubbing and massaging, working out all the stress with flowery soaps. Children came to watch with delight, some of them volunteering to help, and she felt like a goddess as they brushed her fur and tickled her ears. She fell asleep again from the sensation of the warm water and their coddling, and when she awoke she was back outside, a safe distance from them, though she could tell they were watching her. They hid their laughter as she stood and stumbled about, the herbs still residually in her system. They even laughed and clapped as she pranced about as if showing off her newly clean fur and renewed energy as she regained a bit of control over her body. She seemed to dance about, her paws light and airy. What is joy, if not fleeting? Why not grip the moment with an ever-growing sense of appreciation?

"After that day," she hummed, unaware that Mulo was already asleep, "this is where I came when I wanted to get away from the chaos, the constant movement, the violence. I could come here and play as much as I liked without worry—this was before the troll invasions reached this far—and they would take care of me and their children would play with me some days. In all the world, this was my haven. I even learned how to be strong as a wolf here, learning how to make it through the White Wolf territory without being challenged. Still, I would grow restless, or I would stay too long and they would follow me here and become bolder—the knights. At one point I started building. It was haphazard and messy, but I built until I had a place of my own where I could hide from them and they wouldn't be able to find me. That's why I love it here, and I'll will never give it up."

She wagged her tail slowly then, falling into an easy doze, knowing she was safe here.


	12. White Knights part 1

Delarn wasn't aware that she was alive as she awoke. She wasn't aware that the last few weeks were spent in a feverish stupor, or that she had been hauled out of the water, or that the cold of the water was no longer present. She felt hot and cold all at the same time, and she didn't register that a young man was kneeling over her, feeling her forehead, or that the first time a woman had tried to take her temperature she had started screaming and pushing her away until they had no choice but to find someone else to see her.

"Oh, you're awake," he said with a smile, a moment before she dipped back into the realm of the dreamless blackness.

She found herself sitting herself up the next time she awoke. Her head pounded, told her strictly that she shouldn't be doing that. She cussed at her mind silently, trying to pick herself up, but then she thought her mind was right. She shouldn't be getting up when it was so late at night, she consoled herself. That was why she laid back down, not because her frame felt like someone had decided it would be funny to coat her lungs in iron while she was sleeping.

The young man was back when she awoke the next time, and she barely heard him trying to talk her down when she stood up, swaying stubbornly.

"Will you at least tell me your name?" He pleaded.

"My name? It's Ray. I'm called Ray," she answered, looking around curiously, trying to figure out why she was here, and justify why she just lied to him without a second thought. "I'm that sunlight that cuts through the water so that the creatures at the bottom of the sea know there's a god."

He stared at her blankly, wondering if she was even aware that she was awake, that she was speaking, whether or not her words made sense or not.

"Well, no one knows what's at the bottom of the sea. It could be pitch black for all we know," he replied hesitantly.

"Then I suppose I'm glad I didn't reach that far," she answered, running her hands across the white-wash walls and the wintery windows.

"What are you, anyway?" He asked quietly, and he turned and looked at him in horror. Did he know she was a wolf? Did she change as she slept? He looked startled as he explained quickly, "I mean we did take you from a pirate's ship. Were you a pirate? A captive?"

"I come from Varrock. I'm neither now," she dead-panned, "but for the record I was never a pirate. Leave it at that."

"That's good to know," he replied hesitantly. "I was hoping I wasn't bringing you back just for them to kill you. You were a captive, right?"

"I was stupid," she answered irritably, before she noticed the white gown she wore and blushed. "What happened to my clothes?"

"You were soaked through when they pulled you up," he answered hesitantly. "You most certainly would have died right there on the deck if they didn't put you in something dry as quickly as they did. If it helps, the man who did it was blindfolded."

"It doesn't," Delarn retorted, imagining that the man had to know his way around to manage such a feat, or else he was a liar. It worried her, but she didn't feel any different other than ruddier, her skin darker than she imagined it was the last time she had seen land.

She felt someone watching her, and turned to see a white knight standing there, appraising her. He had dark hair and darker eyes, and his voice was like rocks slamming together as he said, "I see she's awake. What has she told you so far."

"Well," the young man murmured, "she was taken hostage by the pirates. She wasn't a member of the crew."

"That young man seemed to be fairly eager to go in and save her when she fell overboard, and he was definitely a pirate," the knight growled.

Delarn's eyes widened, and tears nearly spilled over as she gained a cloudy recollection of Rabbit, hands reaching out for her, becoming nothing more than a bloody smear on the seascape, his eyes wide with horror as he realized he was dead, dragged upward and away from her, not even allowed to say goodbye. She was certainly dead as well. Why wasn't she dead?

"Answer me!" The knight thundered in her face, and she was startled back to the present. "Lieutenant Hyrol might have thought you were worth risking his life to save, but I'm not going to give you an inch until you prove you're not another one of those filth scum."

"Wh-what?" She gulped, realizing he must have asked some sort of question that he failed to catch.

"Sir," the young man interjected quickly, moving between the two of them hastily, "She just woke up. I'm sure she'll be more willing to answer your questions after she gets something to eat. She's barely been able to eat since she got here to begin with."

The knight turned his wrathful eyes on the young man instead, giving her time to realize that she indeed felt as if she were starving. She imagined they tried feeding her while she was sleeping, but she doubted it was much. The knight jabbed a finger at her and growled, "If she doesn't answer my questions the moment she's done eating, she can consider it her last meal." He stormed out of the room, and Delarn gave the young man a grateful nod. She realized that she didn't know his name.

"Well, Ray," he murmured hesitantly, "My name is Colson. I'm technically supposed to be a page, but I'm more interested in healing and the like. Silly of me, but it's what I'm good at." He smiled at her, but after a moment seemed unnerved by how she didn't answer.

"Er, why don't I get you something to eat?" He told her frantically, moving from the room speedily, and she wasn't quite sure why he had given her such a look until she settled on the bed and came even with a dresser with a mirror that showed her face. Her eyes looked impatient, and her cheeks hollow. She narrowed her eyes at the image and started to growl at it, but was silenced as the figure snarled viciously back.

He returned and she smiled at him. Smiled like he was a Zamorakian that had threatened to pop her lungs knowing that his chaos would never be strong enough to overwhelm the shapes dancing in her eyes, like he was a wolf that wasn't so sure he was more dominant, like he was a bitter widow who would rather see her hit in the face than keep the bread in her hands for her obstinate grin.

And he shuddered, as if he could see right through her, and she felt apologetic towards him, before a sense of hatred swelled, but she took the bowl nonetheless and hated him more because his apologetic look was stronger than hers. She hated feeling weaker.

She was lost in the taste of the food. She knew she should be scarfing it down, but the taste of it was too delicious for her to waste now that she had a moment of calm. It was so great that she didn't even notice the man that growled at her and nearly seized her bowl after she managed to block out his voice for the second time within an hour.

He drew back his hand quickly as she made a terrible face at him to shut him up even though it felt like white noise to her, and he lifted his hand as if he would strike the hatred off her face and onto the wall, staining the white.

"That's enough, Major," a kindly, old voice said from the doorway. "I would appreciate if you wouldn't cause Miss Faewulf any sort of harm during her stay. I will be responsible for her discipline, if you don't mind."

Delarn swallowed heavily, feeling the weight of that last name that she recognized as her own, looking up to see a man that looked too elderly and thin to be wearing all that heavy, white armor, but he carried it with ease. She never learned either of their names, and merely knew him as sir.

"Yes sir," he replied sheepishly, and was escorted out of the room with a nod.

"You know me?" Delarn asked him, her voice trembling.

"Of course I do, Miss Wulf," he answered, as if saying her full name was too cumbersome, or as if there were two similar names in her file that both labelled her with the same suffix. She found that the knights were also careless with her name, and it wasn't long before she was curtly known as 'wolf' though it made her paranoid each time she heard it as if they knew exactly what she was under her skin.

He continued, "It's all in your files. Your affiliations, your general movements, your place of origin. All there."

"File? Can I see it?" She answered, hopeful, wondering if it had any secrets that she had lost over time.

"Of course you can't," he answered in a way that both sounded pompous and reassuring to her, though she couldn't sort out which she felt the most. "That's very delicate information and as you are I can't say I trust you with it. I can tell you that I'm going to offer you a chance for a second chance. Serve the city of Falador and prove that you're a loyal and worthy person then perhaps I can sit down with you and show you a bit of it."

She glanced at Colsen, and he gave her a reassuring nod, and she sighed and nodded as well. The man smiled and offered his hand, and she stared at it for a moment, feeling confused until she took her own hand and shook it. "There we are. Why don't you get a bit more food in you and rest just a tad bit more and we'll start bright and early in the morning."

"Yes," she answered, feeling dizzy, and he considered that good enough as he let her hand go, gave her head a quick pat before leaving her on her own to contemplate what that might mean for her.

Only Colsen was still there and he smiled brightly at her. "Did you even hear what he just told you? This is great! Since you're clearly not a criminal or anything like that I bet you're going to be fast-tracked through the ranks. I can feel it!"

"Yeah," she replied, the room smelling a bit too clean to be real.


	13. White Knights part 2

Delarn worked in the Falador park, raking and tearing up the weeds in the gardens, impatiently planting the seeds for new flowers that she would impatiently wait to grow so that they may be cut and sent to any high official that may have a wife that may want them, just to do this all over again. These were the tasks that she was given, and she was always being watched by someone. She didn't always see them, but she always knew they were there, and she never, never, was allowed to work in a place where she might find a way over that imposing wall, back into the chaos of her chosen path.

She wasn't treated badly, per se, but she felt cramped and the walls make her feel claustrophobic in a way she wasn't used to. She could be deep in the tunnels under Varrock with an uncountable amount of Zamorakians rushing past and jostling her, but she couldn't stand the feeling those walls imposed. This city said that she would never escape, where the tunnel said that if she just kept moving and didn't let herself be dragged under she would eventually reach the end. Perhaps if she kept her good behavior, and kept doing her best at the jobs they gave her, she would be allowed to leave, but there was problem with that.

For weeks now she noticed how the other pages acted around Colsen. They mocked and belittled him every chance they could get, and they would grow dormant whenever there was someone around that might say something. She wondered why the person watching her wouldn't do something, but she had a feeling that they weren't allowed to reveal themselves unless dealing with Delarn directly. This was too small of a reason to expose themselves, rather.

At first, for that reason, she turned a blind eye and kept to her work, but the more she would see them tormenting him, the more her skin would burn up. These boys were bigger and stronger than him, and all he wanted was to learn medicine and read his books. He had been sitting in the garden that day, reading his books, in fact, when she noticed them approaching. They were predictable in how they approached, and she had seen it enough times. She scanned the tool she had with her and a wicked grin spread across her lips.

By the time they came around the corner Delarn was back to her weeding, obscure, discreet, and they saw only Colsen. The biggest boy, the leader of the group, stepped forward and yelled at him, "Hey, pipsqueak! What do you think you're doing? Think you can just skip out on morning exercises?"

Colsen was already wrapping up his books so they wouldn't touch them, at the very least wouldn't do as much damage to them, saying, "I finished earlier than you. I had to get up early." This was true. He was responsible for making sure that Delarn got her breakfast before she had to take care of her chores for the day.

"You getting privileges now for taking care of that criminal?" Another of them sneered. "We all know what you're doing."

"She's not," he answered, trying to keep his eyes off where Delarn was working. She could feel him glancing over, but as far as she knew they didn't actually know what she looked like or that she was the same person being referred to.

"I knew a weasel like that would say that," he replied, marching up to him, oozing menace. One of the boys, like they always did, went to the nearby apple tree and reached to take one that had fallen from the branches. Delarn held her breath.

The next moment the boy screamed in surprise as he stepped into her trap, a rope closing around his ankles and dragging him into the tree. The other boy took off in fright, his foot catching on an easily disguised divot before he stopped on a few poles that sent him spiraling into the pond. Delarn knew he was the most skittish of the three and would be frightened by his fellow getting caught.  
The leader turned and Delarn regretted that she couldn't see the look on his face. He then turned back to Colsen. "What did you do? Do you think this is funny? I'm going to show you something funny."

"No," Colsen said, glancing at Delarn again. "I don't know what happened! I swear I have no idea." He had caught signs of her strange behavior, but thought nothing of it until he saw the results. He stood quickly at the boy closed in on him, but his expression was suddenly blank when he stepped on a rake and it hit the boy in the face.

The moment it hit him in the face it was obvious he was enraged, throwing it away from him angrily, but his angry movement trigger another, and that one hit him in the side. This went on for a while until the old man, the one that said he would take care of Delarn in exchange for her good behavior, grabbed the boy's elbow. The boy turned to swing at him, but stopped dead when he saw who it was.

"Sorry sir!" He cried out, horrified.

"Indeed," he replied, leading him away from the mess and turning back to Colsen. He looked scared as well. "You're not in trouble, lad. Just pick these up. Delarn."

She stiffened and murmured, "Yes sir?"

"Come along, lass," he told her, and she nodded jerkily, standing and starting to gather her gardening supplies, but he admonished her. "No, Delarn. That's what I told Colsen to do. You just come along."

"Yes sir," she answered again, following along. The old man paused for a moment and took his bow off his back long enough to nock an arrow and send it flying. It hit the rope that held the boy that was still screaming for help, still hanging from the tree, and he fell in a heap. The old man had his bow back on his back and was walking again before the boy could straighten himself out, and Delarn followed speechlessly.

In his office he motioned for her to take a seat as he closed and locked the door, leaving them alone and asked her, as he went to sit on the other side, "You know why I called you here, don't you?"

"I shouldn't have done that to those boys. I should have told someone about what was happening," she answered.

"Do you believe what you did was right?" He replied primly.

"Well, I think so," she answered, squirming in her seat. "I think that it's not fair how those boys treat him."

"Even if he's breaking the norm in his actions, interrupting the flow of the training for the rest of them?" He answered.

"What?"  
"Miss Delarn," he told her gently. "There are some instances in which it's better to allow events to take their course. Some situations require a bit of hammering out for order to be met, and these instances need to be respected."

"But that's not fair!" She replied, her eyes widening.

"I know you think you know what's best, but trust me. Before long you'll see it for yourself," he answered, smiling gently. "Sometimes you've got to stand back and watch before any set actions should be taken, and sometimes in the interest of balance it's better to let things take their course. Understand?"

She felt something rising her in stomach, but she didn't know what it was, and so she sat silently and nodded and he smiled, standing and patting her head comfortingly. "Now why don't you head back to your room? There will be plenty of time for you to finish your work tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," she answered as he ushered her out of his office, back to her room, back to a troubled sleep.

The afternoon of the next day she found herself in the pub, taking stock. One of the perks of being a White Knight was a discounted cost on the drinks in that bar, the Rising Sun. She had a feeling she was given this task to keep her out of the garden, out of sight of it. It bothered her for a bit, but after a moment the task at hand became more important to her, and she could overhear various patrons talking, and so she couldn't help but listen in from time to time. There was one particular instance in which one voice in the bar rose above the rest.

"When I find her alone I'm going to make her pay," the man growled, and she peeked over just long enough to see that it was the same knight that had tried to question her when she was first brought here. "No one makes a fool out of my boy."

"She's practically a slave," his comrade answered. "Just shut up about her. After a few more years here and she'll be nothing but a dirty rag and your son will be ordering her around himself. Who knows, he might even have her."

"If she comes anywhere near him I'll wring her neck myself," he growled, downing what sounded like his fifth pint to her ears. "She'll have it coming to her."

"Wolf, are you checking your numbers?" The barkeep was peeking over her shoulder, and at the mention of her moniker it not only brought her back to the task at hand, but brought the attention of the knights. She could hear the man standing, his armor creaking—would she have to oil that armor for him at some point?

Still, she paused, she took a breath and looked at the numbers, murmuring them one by one until the moment when the man was standing over her, on the other side of the bar, and there was an explosion of motion as he started cursing and slurring at her, reaching for her angrily. She couldn't hear what he was saying, couldn't make it out over the rushing sound of her heart beating. She slipped from where she was jabbed against the bottles and barrels like a frightened animal just as the bartender tried to seize him, to hold him back. She heard the knight punch the man with a deafening crack.

He was fine. She recalled he was fine. She didn't know at the time, but he was.

She tried to get to the door, tried to escape as he wheeled around, but his friends grabbed at her arms and she barely managed to wretch herself free before he was upon her, punching her heavily in the back before she could dart away. She hit the ground hard and scrambled under a nearby table, and he leaned down to follow her, but she kicked him hard in the face causing him to pull back angrily, hitting his head on the table. She finally managed to scratch her way to the door, taking a deep breath once she made it out as if emerging from deep water. The elderly knight was standing there, however, waiting for her, his arms crossed and his expression grim.

She froze, seeing his mouth pursed in disapproval, and she cried out desperately, "It wasn't my fault!"

"What did we just get finished talking about?" He asked, his tone icy.

"Was I supposed to let him beat me?" She cried, holding her shoulder, the center of her back pulsing painfully.

"Delarn," he replied sternly and she grew silent, her face draining of expression, of anger, of anything at all as she followed him back to the castle. It wasn't long before she found herself being sent back to her room.


	14. White Knights part 3

Many, many weeks passed before Delarn was allowed outside again. Many hours spent passing through long, uninviting hallways in which she knew she wouldn't be able to escape. She thought to try a time or two, but she could always feel someone watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. Some days she didn't leave her room at all, curled in a ball and protesting everything her life had become, just wanting to escape through her mind if not her body. Even so Colsen always made sure she had something to eat, always tried to talk to her even when she wasn't responsive to anything at all.

The day she was finally able to go outside she was quiet and thoughtful. She didn't seem at all excited to be out in the gardens again and kept quiet and demure. She seemed to be listening and waiting for something, or else trying to avoid being seen altogether, but she couldn't figure out what it was that made her so quiet and nervous. Colsen couldn't figure it out either, and he watched her nervously as he settled beneath a tree with one of his herblore books. He looked down for just a moment, it seemed, and the next moment he was looking up and she was gone. A sense of panic went through him, and worry set in. Is that what he felt when he went to look for her as opposed to when he found her?  
She knew that she couldn't run away outright, but she also knew that she could get away with slipping away from her watcher if only the thing she was doing was one of the many tasks she was given. If she did it without supposedly being watched then maybe she would be worthy of being trusted in some way. Maybe she never would be trusted, and she would be stuck here forever, and that's what scared her the most, what drove her closer to the wall, closer to what she imagined the edge of the wall would be like, and what falling off the wall would be like if the alternative was to be trapped here forever. Even then she imagined she would hit the ground running, unscathed, and that was a relief on its own.

She gathered a couple of buckets of water from the pump and went to wash the wall, finding the weight of the buckets holding her down inviting as she didn't believe she would ever lose her strength as long as she was moving, working, existing in a world where she could still feel her muscles ache in the morning. The way the water sloshed out used to bother her, but now she was aware that it was all just a part of the process, setting the buckets down beside her.  
The walls seemed so pristine, but as she washed them she saw how much whiter they were under the general grime of stagnant years. She found the true white all the more rewarding and so she hummed pleasantly as she worked on the washing. She paused a moment, as if something was suddenly off that she couldn't figure out. She looked around, and then her eyes fell on the bucket. There was only one bucket when she had clearly recalled filling and bringing two.

She collapsed to her knees a second before the second bucket swept for her head, and she could feel the movement of it brushing through her hair. More so she shrieked at the sensation of the water dousing her, sending her into fits of shivers, her mind forcing everything else to shut down as if recalling how she couldn't hardly move her limbs when she was submerged.

What if this was a dream? What if this white city was all a dream and she was merely still drowning?  
The reality of what happened set in. It set in the moment the bucket swept the other direction, knocking her from her frozen posture, forcing her to the ground. She could see him clearly now, this knight, his face cruelly sneering. He knew he had her, tearing the handle from the bucket to wrap it around her neck until she couldn't breathe. Only now, however, her mind was catching up and her body had caught up before her mind and she was moving, scrambling away from his grasping hand as he tried to grip a bunch of her hair. He only managed a few strands that still made her eyes water as they were torn out.

"Why?" She cried desperately as he pulled out his sword, so white and clean that she could practically see her reflection in it.

"People like you don't change. They may change the world around them, but they themselves will never change," he answered. "There's only one way to assure order when it comes to people like you, one way that I'll know for sure you won't bother my boy again."

Her eyes filled with tears, but there was something deep inside her that simply…snapped.

When Colsen found her, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He could only watch as the girl that he had been caring for, after all this time, changed into a wolf. He couldn't even cry out a warning as the wolf wrapped its teeth around the man's throat, biting through skin and bone. He wasn't wearing his armor—why would he, for one young woman meant for the slaughter? Who would besmirch that pure white for someone as lowly as her?

She couldn't stop herself from tearing into his skin, and didn't stop until she heard Colsen's voice—quiet, pleading, scared—his hand on the puny practice sword on his hip. "You need to stop. Stop now!"  
She could smell his fear, but she could hear more in his voice, something apologetic, trying to reason with her though it was clear he didn't see any reason in her whatsoever. She changed back and he swallowed heavily, sickened by the blood that circled her lips. She didn't speak or take her eyes off him, but he slowly approached her.

"What are you Delarn? What have you done? Please. Please don't move," he murmured, as if comforting her, his hand snaking to the blade, appearing prepared to draw it, to use it, though there was a moment in which she wondered how someone who never seemed to use it could possibly hope to use it now. Then again, she felt fairly frozen, like when doused, but worse. He could just…just….  
"Behind you," he practically whispered. He could have yelled it. All sound around her seemed to cease in the next moment as she turned and a blade flashed out to go into her back, now her chest, except the moment after he had spoken she had turned, and the moment she had turned sideways to turn to face what was behind her the blade had flashed out, and the moment the blade flashed out it went past her into Colsen who had taken a step forward. Her eyes weren't on him, or the old man—he being the one standing there with his sword extended—but at the wall.

The portion she had cleaned, the pristine white, was splattered with the knight's blood and instead was a brilliant red. She was a brilliant red stain.

Colsen made a sort of hissing sound the moment the blade went into his chest, into his lungs, and the old knight stood there in relative horror. Delarn could imagine that this was his drowning moment, and she doubted she would never stop drowning after that moment as well, but she wasn't there for much longer. She was running. She couldn't catch her breath no matter what she did. She just kept hearing that hissing noise the entire time. She didn't want to see what happened next, if he lived or died, because she knew for a fact that he was going to die, and soon she would die soon. It was coming, it was coming, and yet it didn't.

What did come was a crack in the wall. It was dark and though she thought that she could see light on the other side, she really didn't believe there was and so when she went in she didn't expect to come back out, but she came out on the other side. She came out on a side that wasn't filled with yelling. There was so much yelling that followed when she came out on the other side, but it wasn't on her side even though her hearing had returned louder than ever. She could, however, hear her blood pounding in her ears and how nature around her continued to celebrate life even as those within those walls cursed and fretted about the death in their midst. Two deaths. Both her doing.

She hid herself until the sunlight gave way and the cold became so bitter that sleeping simply wasn't something she could manage to do even if she cared to. She could still hear frantic movement within the city, still hear cursing and searching, and so she treaded carefully throughout the night as she picked her way 'home'. It was rare not to see torches dotting the way ahead of her, but it made things easier in a way despite the sheer amount of people searching for her. She always knew where they were, their lights a beacon that she refused to be drawn to.

There was a strange moment in which she found herself in the Barbarian Village, Gunnarsgrunn, and she was offered a warm drink that burned as it went down as if they were waiting for her, waiting to wrap her in warm blankets, waiting to put her to sleep there, but in the end she refused even if she accepted their drink and their hospitality. An old man narrowed his eyes at her and told her, as she stood on the edge of the village, on the opposite side than the side she came in on, "If you go now, your trials will begin as well. There will be no more rest for you, and you may lose your way back to these halls."

"I'm sorry, grandfather," she answered, even as she continued walking, crossing that all too familiar bridge back into Varrock. "I'm sorry."


	15. Change

Delarn wandered through the streets of Varrock the night she returned with a sense of uneasiness about her. She felt as if someone would jump out at her at any second, and she had lost her sword the moment she was arrested and transported to Port Sarim. She hissed, stiffening as someone walked out in front of her, grinning.

"Girl, you've made a mess of things, haven't you? Look at those golden eyes. Just like your father's," he laughed. The man standing in front of her wore a velvety, purple coat and held a mandolin in his hair, plucking it quietly.

"Who are you?" She hissed. "How do you know my father?"

"Silly girl! The world over knew your father. He was loud, arrogant, respectable. The kind of man that couldn't push down his fame no matter what he did," he answered. "It's you they don't know, but at this rate that's quickly going to change."

"I asked who you were," She snapped, shaking and looking all around. The sound of his mandolin set her on edge, believing that they would be set upon at any moment. Zamorakian or Saradominist? At the moment either seemed likely.  
"Arvour," he answered, smiling at her with teeth that were far too white for her taste. His hair was curly and fell around his shoulders, dark brown, and his eyes were a gleaming blue, lighter than the sky, laughing at her. "I'm your best friend right here and now. Out of all the people watching you, I'm the one that dared to get this close."

"Watching me?" She replied carefully. "You're insane."

"That's right," he giggled at her. "I'm completely insane and I obviously have no idea what I'm talking about, right? So you're going back to your little Zamorakian follower friends from the look of it. Here's what I'm going to do for you. I'm going to tell you not to do that. I'm going to tell you to run the other way. Go South since the west is obviously off limits to the likes of you until those good boys in Falador forget what you've done. Get mixed up in those desert gods for a while if you're really craving more trouble. If you're smart, which I don't think you are, you'll play it right and you might even be able to convince them that you're a god yourself."

She stared at him for a long moment before growling and narrowing her eyes, "I don't know what you think you know, but I know I'm not going to listen to the likes of you." She started to walk past and the next moment his knife was making a go for her stomach. She grabbed it quickly and in the same movement pressed it against his throat.

She could feel his other hand wrapped around her waist, a second knife placed in the perfect position to paralyze her permanently, placed against the base of her spine. He smirked, "Do it, sweetie. I've learned that a dead man learns a lot less than a living woman." His mandolin was hanging from a strap that kept it in place on his back.

She gave a rattling growl, lowering the knife slowly. The moment it was removed from his neck it changed into a bouquet of flowers. "For you," he snickered, removing the knife and stepping back. Her face reddened in fury. "Come on! It was funny, don't you think? Now run along. You don't want mom to think you're late for dinner. Don't keep that stable household waiting, alright?"  
She glared at him and turned to leave. She yelped furiously the moment she felt him tap her butt, but the moment she turned he was gone as if he were never there.

She hissed incoherently under her breath, and went on her way, going to return to the underground. The sharp smell of drugs, sweet and bitter at the same time, assaulted her the moment she entered. The sound of music pulsed through her bones the closer she drew to the source, loud and disturbing in nature, but causing her to grin for some reason she couldn't quite place. The reason was just out of reach and she couldn't quite catch it and a laugh bubbled from her lips as she watched the dancing, swaying figures the moment she came upon them in their enthusiastic, vicious, unpredictable, euphoric dance and she found herself becoming one and the same with the people around her.

The scent of the drug overwhelmed everything, or rather enhanced everything. The smell of love, the smell of desire, the smell of fear. They were all there, and she could barely control herself. Unnatural lights of all colors pulsed from every angle, further disorienting her, and a desperate laugh spilled from her lips.

Before long a man that stood a foot over her approached her, a luscious smirk on his face, his eyes predatory. He kissed her just beneath her ear and she blushed and began to lean into him, but she shook the cloudiness from her mind a moment later and pushed him away with a quiet growl.

His arms wrapped around her, however, and he pulled her closer, whispering in her ear, "I know you're a wolf and this is all just the sway of nature so just let me have you."

She laughed nervously and settled against him for a moment, just a moment, but the next moment her hand wrapped around his dagger and twisted it sharply, pulling it free from its sheathe, and he was now howling in pain. He shoved her away, reaching down to his stomach and pulling his hand back to find it slick with blood. He paled as he looked at the blood, and the back at her, still holding the knife as it was wretched from him. People glanced over, the erratic movement around them freezing for just second.

They didn't seem to mind or care. The next moment their voices were loud and raised in celebration at the act, just as prevalent in their eyes as what the man had attempted. They toasted her. They offered her drinks. The sound of their revelry, of their chanting of her name, had bought her a priceless sense of presence and she rushed from the room, rushed from those tunnels, not even turning for a moment to look back.

She was then met with that man again, Arvour, and the first thing she asked him, trying to shake the dizziness from her head was, "Who did you say you were again?"  
"I'm your Argyros, wolf," he answered with a smile, "but don't ask me what it means." He then shrugged, as if to say 'it's all Greek to me'.

"You said I should go south, didn't you? That's what you said?" She replied, rubbing her eyes.  
"I thought of something better, something that will offer you a blank slate if you'll take advantage of it," he teased, strumming at his mandolin with great amusement painted across his face. "Come with me and I'll assure you that everything will change."

She stared at him once more, but this time she was looking past him as if she were the knight now, seeing her sword go past the man that she really wanted dead into the boy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He turned away from her suddenly and started walking hastily. She assumed she hadn't answered quick enough so she called out to him, "Wait! I want your help. I need help!"  
He acted like he didn't hear her, continuing walking without slowing and she tried to catch up to him though he always seemed one step ahead. Her blood ran cold as she suddenly found herself standing outside of that great, white wall of Falador even if she didn't think she had walked nearly enough to arrive here. She felt bone cold inside, seeing it again, and all she wanted was to not see it at all and so she ducked into the nearby house, thinking that he had gone in there as well, but he wasn't there, but there was someone. He looked like a mage to her, and so she was wary, but also curious.

"What business does a woman like you have here?" He asked strangely, and watched her as if maybe he knew exactly who she was and what she was here for.

"I'm here for a change. I want change," she answered, her voice shaking, though she stood resolutely before him.

"Change? Everyone says that, but most people don't understand what it means, don't really care to admit that things may be just as bad on the other side of the fence as their own. What do you know about change?" He replied.

"I know that I have known change before, and I will know change again inevitably even if that change comes with death. I know you have the means to provide me with a different sort of change and so I demand and relish the chance for it," she replied.  
"I still don't believe you know what you mean," she replied as she turned, and the moment her back was turned Delarn took from his cauldron, placing the vial in her pocket with a sort of reverence. In that same instance she recalled, in this same moment of memory, placing the vial down on her table, studying it, learning everything she could and reading every book she might until she knew exactly how it worked just like how she knew how to brew Dragon Bitter in her own home. It was interchangeable for her, these two knowledges.

The woman—was it a woman? Was it a man?—turned back to Delarn, and she immediately felt a pounding in her head. She collapsed and when she awoke and realized she was lying on a backstreet of Varrock. She must have passed out—it must have all been a dream.

Delarn moved like a spirit, head still pounding. That home, the smell of sewer, there's no such scent now. The scent of drugs, thick and drilling into Delarn's head.

"You're home," the woman that has adopted her smiled warmly, but paused, her eyes growing smoky as she looked to see what Delarn had become. She was getting older. Her time was running out. Delarn believed that she might live forever, but this woman wouldn't. She touched her chest—chest? It was a chest rather than what it used to be.

Delarn took a deep breath. He felt confused. What had happened? Then it came back.  
"A change. A completely new identity," he mouthed.

"You took my son," she purred. "You owe me."  
"I owe you?" He answered, even as his eyes roved her body. A new set of impulses drilled into his head he wanted to test out.  
When he left Varrock that night it had become a crossroads rather than a home.


	16. The Rug

Delarn had returned to his home and had spent many days in solitude, only leaving long enough to find something to eat, but avoiding other people. His eyes were dark as he studied the far wall, thinking about all that he had done the last few months. His teeth grinded and he cursed under his breath before willing his mind to be blank. It grew harder and harder to push down his thoughts, and he could barely sleep without having strange dreams that mocked and tore at him.

He cursed, his tone like cold fire, and stood. He considered going back to Varrock, but a shiver went up his spine as he remembered the night he left. _The expression on her face._  
He started toward his kitchen, hoping to find something that would calm his nerves, keep him occupied, exhaust him until he couldn't think at all, but something else caught his attention and he was now moving swiftly toward the door, throwing it open just in time to be greeted by two men. He stared at them with his head cocked to the side. They were carrying a carpet, smelling rich and silky, plush as well as a blood red with delicate golden designs through it.

"Thank you for holding the door for us," the one in the front told him with a smile, shouldering him aside so he and his companion could get in.

"What do you think you're doing?" Delarn barked, coughing a bit. He hadn't spoken for quite a few days.

"We're giving you a gift," the one in the front told her as if that was entirely obvious. "It's to be expected, really, as we're coming so late and without prior notice. Rather rude of us, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would agree that this is completely unexpected," he answered. "How do you know me, and why are you giving me this, and how did you find this place?"  
"Questions, questions," he replied, his tone suggesting he was admonishing him, making Delarn bristle angrily. "You know with demons there's always a price to pay for those."

"You're demons?" He answered blankly, his anger struggling with his curiosity as he eyed the two, adding, "But you don't look like demons. You look—"

"Gorgeous," the other one chirped with an impish smirk. He had been carrying the far end of the rug. "Yes, it's quite a miracle, isn't it? Demons have that kind of power, though most err on the side of…monstrous in their preferences."

The first gave the second a steely look, and the second merely giggled before those eyes went back to Delarn. "You must want something to call us, right? I'm called Gagerdol and this is Ares'que. And what's your name? We're dying to know."

Delarn immediately felt uneasy. He remembered how demons were like from his father, and he knew that nothing was more dangerous than to give a demon your real name, not to mention giving _two_ demons his real name.

"Ray Argyros Tor," he answered without hesitating, and he found he liked the sound of it. Ray. _RAT._ He was clever. He could escape the eyes of all even when he had none. He nodded, confident in the name as if it weren't a lie.

"Ray," Gagerdol purred. "It's nice to meet you. Shall you help us with this?" He dropped his half and Ares'que followed suit. Gagerdol then swaggered past him to the living room where he swept all the furniture out of the way with a flick of his wrist. It wasn't long before Ray was leaning down beside him and Ares'que, helping them spread it out, and he couldn't deny that it looked nice.

"Now be a dear and put thing back the way they were. My love and I need to get settled in and it's not the easiest process," Gagerdol told him with a lascivious smile that sent pinpricks down his back.  
"Settle in? I thought you were here as guests. Merely visiting," he answered, gaping.

"Darling, a bachelor like you doesn't need to stew in his own juices alone. Tell me that you don't need the company," Gagerdol replied with a smile. "Do you even know how to cook?"  
"Of course I know how to cook. I was one of the main cooks by the time I left my forced indenture on _The Seven Sea Bears_ ," he answered, bristling a bit.

"And I'm sure you take full advantage of that knowledge, all alone here. Why don't you let us do you a favor? We'll take care of you if you give us a place to stay? Deal? I promise you that you'll want the company," he responded.

Ray still appeared skeptical, and so Ares'que piped up, "Why don't I make you something now, and if you like it then you'll let us stay, but if not then we'll leave. Does that sound fair?"

Ray still didn't quite like the fixture they were pushing on him, but he nodded moodily. If he had to, he considered, he could simply lie about what he thought of the meal and be done with them. He glanced uneasily at the rug and knew that with that there it was as if he had practically opened his arms to them already, and he didn't know why he had been so willing to put it down in the first place.

Ray then spent a good, awkward, fifteen minutes or so sitting across from Gagerdol at his own dining room table. He muttered and squirmed as the demon seemed to take great joy in keeping his strange eyes on him without any attempt at conversation. Every so often he found himself studying Gagerdol, though lingering on his eyes made him feel physically nauseous as they seemed beautiful out of the corner of his eyes, but the moment he looked directly into them they were like pairs of the howling void, insidious, all-consuming. His hair was greyish, and flecked with specs of gold that Ray's eyes tried to chase down but couldn't quite get a fix on.

"An interesting middle name," Gagerdol said finally. "It means silver, doesn't it? Literally translates to 'not gold'. The bane of wolves, they call silver. Aren't you a wolf?"  
Ray took a moment to register that he had spoken at all, and the moment he did he was notably flustered. He opened his mouth to speak finally, but at that moment Ares'que swept into the room and Gagerdol seemed amused as if he had planned this timing.

He was looking at Ares'que first, rather than the dish, while he had the chance. He took note that Ares'que was made up of softer, friendlier colors. His hair was a sort of blueish-black color and the suit he wore was a silky purple that contrasted with the solemn blacks and greys that made up Gagerdol. His eyes were colorful and friendly, though they also gave him a headache to look at directly as if they were merely a veil into the same haphazard world that Gagerdol contained. He jumped a bit as if he were lost in thought looking at Ares'que the moment the ceramic—did he own ceramic before?—clanked against the surface of the table. He looked at what was presented before him and felt strangely pleased.

It was a small bird of some sort, the skin glazed and shining, and Ares'que placed a knife and fork in each of Ray's hands almost without him registering it. He cut into it tentatively, though there was inevitably a strong draw to the food, the smell more delicious than he had ever known. Ares'que seemed to chirp in delight at how delicate Ray was when he was cutting into it, as if he hadn't expected the man to be so elegant in his dining, and the moment he did a wave of the sweet smell of a mixture of fruit and berries graced his nose, and his heart raced at the thought of eating such a meal.

He knew it was all over the moment he took a bite, a wide smile crossing his face at the savory flavor. There would be no deceiving anyone, demon or otherwise, about what he thought of this dish as he continued to eat. They watched him like a particularly favored pet, and Ares'que seemed to absolutely swell with delight at him as he had not lost his sense of neatness as he ate. He felt silly thinking about what an emphasis he had put on eating like this when he was younger. It wasn't for any particular reason when he had decided on it. It was just something that he had decided to do for the fun of it, and then the habit stuck.

"Well," Ray murmured, appearing absolutely sheepish now, "I suppose a deal is a deal. You both can stay."

Ares'que sounded delighted, and Gagerdol merely gave a sharp smile.

That night the sound that the two made from their room made Ray choke and vomit, waves of pain going through him. He convulsed on the floor, his eyes wide and frozen on one point on the ceiling as he struggled to ride through the torturing pain ringing through him. At some point he blacked out. The day after Gagerdol and Ares'que acted like nothing happened and Ray was willing to behave the same way, too ashamed to admit to what had happened, but that night the same thing started anew though this time it stopped suddenly.

Ray was lying on the floor, struggling to catch his breath, and he was surprised when Ares'que propped him up in his lap and stroked his hair until he was able to finally sit up himself. He looked a bit surprised and weary and Ares'que gave a strangely gentle smile in return, murmuring, "We should have known better. A mortal like you wouldn't be able to handle that."

"What?" He asked. "I'm fine," he muttered though he still felt a bit nauseous even now and the green was clear in his face. He swallowed heavily as he felt another wave of hot bile attempting to make its way up his throat.  
"Here," he murmured. "Let me teach you something that will help you. It's an incantation that will protect you from my and Gagerdol's demonic energy so it won't affect you like this."

"Why are you helping me?" Ray asked after a moment, not wanting to accept anything that would indebt himself to him.

"Isn't it obvious? I—well that's nothing to worry about. Consider it a gift. Nothing more," he answered. He used a bit of his influence, knowing that Ray was particularly susceptible at this moment, and not wanting him to question knowing that it was only logical for him to be skeptical though he really did want to help him.

"Sure," Ray finally agreed after Ares'que's insistent influence set in, and they sat together like this for most of the night, Ares'que teaching him the incantation. It was in a strange language that Ray wasn't accustomed to so it took many, many tries. He didn't quite notice Gagerdol standing in the doorway with burning eyes until he finally started getting it right consecutively, and finally fell asleep with him in sight.

The weeks that followed found Ray falling into an easy habit of writing down things that he could remember and working on small projects. He did start to feel more at ease with their company, and grew fond of them. The opposite could be said about the demons' relationship with each other, and their arguing grew more and more constant until one night Ray found himself bent over and heaving again, muttering the incantation again and again, though even that barely kept the negative energy at bay. He was sure if he didn't have it he would have died that very night. The next morning Gagerdol was gone.  
"He broke up with me," Ares'que told Ray the next morning with a lofty sigh, acting like it wasn't a big deal at first, but the longer time went on, the more he started to get in Ray's way or else he wouldn't do anything at all. At first he didn't feel too bothered by Ares'que's behavior, but soon it grew to become incredibly irritating and exasperating to simply have him in the same room even if he wasn't doing anything. Sometimes especially when he wasn't doing anything.

"Will you just go!" Ray burst one day as he was cooking a meal for himself, Ares'que simply leaning against the wall, watching him with apathetic eyes that didn't seem to actually see him.

"Come again?" He answered, not quite alert to what Ray was saying.  
"I said leave!" He barked. "All you do is mope around or else get in my way! Go! Get out of here and leave me! Ever since you broke up with Gagerdol you have caused me nothing but misery, and I'm sick of it."

"But Ray…."  
"I'm done," he hissed, tears in his eyes. "Please just leave me alone, alright? Don't you get it?"  
"I…yes, I understand," he answered slowly, appearing hurt for a moment. "If you need me, you know where to find me."

"Yes, yes, just go," Ray barked again, staring into his watery soup. Ares'que stared at him for a moment, started to reach out for him, but finally just nodded and stepped back.  
"I wanted to apologize, Delarn," he finally said.  
"What?"  
"I wanted to apologize, Ray," he repeated, his tone low. "We were here to kill you, but I couldn't even do that much for you. I'm sorry. Love you." He then disappeared, leaving Ray standing there, adding salt to the bowl he got for himself.


	17. Unicorn

Ray didn't know what had compelled him to walk into Falador. The thought that kept running through his mind was "to make amends", but the way he was huddled against the far wall, the rich taste of iron in his mouth, the blurry sight of iron bars in front of his swollen eyes, told him another story.

He had walked into the Rising Sun with the intention of talking with the bartender that he had worked beside back when he was Delarn the captive, knowing that in his new form he wouldn't be recognized. A thick, matted beard made his face less distinguishable as the girl that had counted stock for one, and even his hair was thicker and wilder than when he was last incarcerated in those walls. Those walls made him antsy to begin with and it was great control, or lack of common sense, that drove one foot in front of the other.

He couldn't remember what he had said, what he had tried to ask, or how he had presented himself, but he did remember someone saying something about Saradomin blessing him on his journey while he was in that city and onward, and he had said something about how Saradomin was a pig on his shining throne in the sky, lavishing in the worship of fools. He then remembered being punched cleanly across the jaw and becoming acquainted with a few new constellations.

He licked the blood from his teeth and chuckled. He wished that it wasn't his own, but the cold hard truth was that it was he who was made the fool for choosing such rash words for a bar full of knights donning the Saradominist star. He pondered if perhaps it would have served him better to make that comment as a woman, though he figured women burned faster than men.

He closed his eyes, still smarting terribly, and attempted to sleep. This was a short sentence, after all. Maybe a week? It was allegedly for disturbing the peace, and he prayed that those of Port Sarim had a more practical sense for judgement than the holiest city in Gielinor.

He must have slept because he woke up to the sound of the iron door opening. He stirred a bit, as if hoping that he was being released, but instead of him coming out another prisoner was coming in. At first he felt a bit fussy when there was only one bed, but he figured that was fine after all when he had been doing perfectly well sleeping leaned against the wall. The moment he started thinking about it his back started killing him, and he sat a bit straighter.

He was curious about the newcomer, honestly, though he couldn't make him out very well after sitting up. His near-sightedness didn't help, but it was stranger than that. It was almost as if the figure in front of him was a blur of light rather than a person, though he was clearly a person. He had limbs and a torso and everything that a person had though there was light blocking the way. It didn't seem to block the finely-crafted rapier that hung on his belt though Ray was surprised that the guards hadn't taken it from him. He was surprised he could make it out so well himself, actually.

He considered striking up a conversation, but the memory of the last time he was here, the time when Cannoneye—Bearaliska's bosun—had tricked him—her at the time—into helping him free the both of them and escape was a bit too much and kept his mouth shut.

That seemed fine with the strange figure. He seemed to be more than willing to keep clear of Ray, giving him a wide berth, and there was a part of him that felt a swelling of pride. He could only guess that this fellow, who seemed thin and wiry in comparison, was afraid of him because of his obvious signs of having gotten into a fight. He hadn't done too badly in it either for someone who was being wailed on by at least five heavily armored knights and a small girl with a particularly thick branch. He almost felt bad for the guy as he huddled on the far end of the cell like a wounded animal, though he wasn't about to say anything to him.

At some point he had fallen asleep again. It was fairly dark in any case and the moonlight was barely present when he awoke again. He was sure if he could make it out from where he sat it would be a thin, thin crescent. Maybe not _that_ thin, but thin enough. Still, the man gave off a strange kind of glow that the guard that was on night duty didn't seem to be able to see. He didn't see much at all, really, with his head lolling back in his attempt to sleep through his shift without a care for the prisoners he guarded.

The man then started to stir from where he was huddled. He stood slowly and turned with unnerving nonchalance and Ray wasn't sure why he couldn't breathe all of a sudden. The man standing in front of him seemed to be completely different from the one that entered. Ray could make out his features now and they were sharp and cruel, or rather there was something entirely detached other than his eyes, dark and piercing, even in the dark. His skin seemed to be so silvery-white that he seemed to glow, and his hair was like new fallen snow.

Those eyes held him in place as surely as if he had a spear physically shoved through him and into the wall behind him. He scrambled and squirmed uncomfortably as the man drew closer, trying to stand but finding that he couldn't get any leverage. The blood drained from his face as the man leaned down and placed his hand lightly and delicately around his neck.

"You will call me Galahad," he hissed at him, Ray swallowing nervously as he caught his reflection in the man's dark-eyed gaze. He whimpered, absolutely unnerved, and tried to shift though the way the man's hands tightened the moment he tried discouraged him.

"I'm called—"  
"I don't care," he snapped before he could finish. Ray was shocked to find that this man's voice was perversely musical and pleasant even with only those three words.

Ray opened his mouth again, struggling to think of something to say, but even if he could figure it out any ability to speak was squeezed out of him. He whined and gasped uselessly for breath, and the hand on his neck slowly changed to a cloven hoof, and it felt as if a blunt stone with sharpened edges was attempting to crush his windpipe. He lifted his head so it would cut into the underside of his chin though it was starting to fall again as it got harder and harder to stay conscious.

One thing that did assure his consciousness was the terrible maw that greeted him. The man, handsome except for those terrifying black voids that he had for eyes, was slowly changing. There was something undeniably equine about that face as his maw elongated, though the angles were sharp and chiseled. He opened that terrible snout to reveal sharp, luminous teeth and breath that stank of rotted flesh. He leaned toward his neck with the slow studiousness of a leisurely snake when it knows its prey is already sedate. Ray couldn't even make a sound.

He could make out the sound of the guard sputtering awake. He had evidently leaned too far back in his chair. The man looked around nervously as if to check if anyone had caught him sleeping and his eyes fell on their cell. Ray felt the pressure on his neck loosen and the moment he did he scrambled and scraped to get free, clawing his way over to the bars with breathless gasps.

"Let me out! LET ME OUT!" He rasped, clawing and scratching through the bars, tears streaming down his face. "He's insane! He wants to kill me! Let me out NOW!"

The guard blinked at him slowly and scoffed as he stood and walked over, just out of reach, his eyes still groggy and reddish from too much sleep, and then drinking before that.

"You rabble-rouser dumb bastard," he mocked, knowing he was perfectly safe on this side of the cell. "You've been here for just one measly night and you're already losing your gods-forsaken mind. You see that fellow there? He's harmless. Look at him!"  
Ray did look over his shoulder, appeared horrified, expected him to be right behind him, poised to break his spine or else something worse, but he was just…huddled there. He appeared to be in a troubled sleep, shaking like he had some sort of flu. He appeared absolutely helpless, weak, measly, harmless, and Ray's mouth gaped in horror.

All the while the guard was saying, "And do you know why he's here? He came here and _he_ demanded that _we_ put him in prison. You know why? Littering of all things! He wouldn't even accept his own cell. Asked us to put him in a cell with someone else. Said he didn't want any special treatment. With your smashed face I didn't think you would be any harm to him, but now you're whining and crying and throwing a fit about _him_ hurting _you_."

"You don't understand—"

"He's going to be here the next two nights so you damned well better get used to him," the guard barked at him and Ray paused a moment as he took this information in.

"No! No…No! Please! He'll kill me. He's going to kill me! You don't under—"

His scream was inhuman as the guard smashed and grinded his heel into Ray's reaching hand until he managed to wretch it free, though he stayed huddled against the bars. The guard gave an evil grin and took advantage of this, kicking him sharply in the ribs. He snarled and pushed away from what seemed the safest place in the cell with Galahad on the other side, and the guard sneered at him before going back to his chair and Ray was caught between anger and fear, his side throbbing. He tried to curse at the guard, but the man was used to such verbal racket and fell back to sleep quickly.

Ray was breathless, his voice giving out after a moment, cold slicing up his spine a second before Galahad wrapped his arm around his chest, the other plucking at the hairs on his head lightly as he hissed, "You're lucky, aren't you?"

"I don't feel lucky," he answered, but it came out as an inaudible whisper, tears welling up in his eyes again.

"I would have killed you, but I didn't quite get a good look at you or that red hair of yours. I find that those with red hair make the best servants, pleasing to the eye, and I have methods of revealing people for what they really are. I'll certainly have what I want from you," he hissed in his ear.

He whimpered and struggled, but Galahad held him in place as he added, "Then again, it's been a while since I've had wolf blood." The next moment Ray felt the sharp sensation of a thousand long, serrated knives going into his shoulder and he cried out in pain and torment before blacking out. It felt like years before he blacked out, agonizing years.

The next morning he was awoken by the sound of the cell door opening. The guard had his nose up as he was saying something along the lines of, "This guy came by and bailed you out. Aren't you the lucky one?"

He didn't hear any of that if he heard anything at all. He burst from the cell as a wolf, his teeth ripping the man's throat to shreds the moment his reaching front paws met his chest, and then he darted past Argyros. A dark smile crossed the man's face as he stood back and watched. Fear pounded through Ray's veins like aged liquor, burning and terrible. He couldn't breathe the moment he felt something following him.

Ray finally turned to face him, his eyes narrowing, and he started to growl even as he changed from wolf to man again. He wanted to face him on his feet, wanted to defy him, but he didn't register the next moment. Not clearly. He just recalled a deep pain, or lack of.

And then Ray was conscious of everything that was happening around him again, and Galahad was shocked to say the least. That silvery blade he had was slick with Ray's blood, but there was no blood anywhere on Ray. There was no proof of the kill. No proof that his heart had been pierced, blood running down his mouth and dripping on the craggy stone path. Sailors were staring in silence. They had all seen it. Ray shouldn't be alive any longer. Galahad took a few slow, tenacious steps away from him and all eyes followed him.

He was given the opportunity to disappear the moment Ray turned and took off at a run, the movement of a dead man more interesting than the disappearance of a supposed-to-be killer.


	18. Blank Space

There were images that were more vivid than others. The glint of light bouncing off the water the moment the sword went into her—her?—heart, the smell of her father's breath when he had been drinking most of the night before, that tingling feeling that happened in her palms when she was holding back from shifting between human and wolf. There were lighter things, such as the touch of a woman holding her in her arms, one as a mother to an infant and the other as an usurper to a lover, and the sound that a blade makes when it tears through a man's chest and on through his furry back. They all came to her as visions rather than scents, feelings, and actual sensation however. They were like bubbles, though bubbles that were undying and infinite. She could hear the sound of her own voice as she cheerfully joked with a vicious Zamorakian that was yelling in her face about all the terrible things he intended for her if she failed her mission until his expression switched from anger, to confusion, to pity. What was she saying? The language wasn't right.

"Please stop, Delarn. Stop. STOP!" The man was begging her now. He was begging her to realize the weight of his threats, or at least to fear for herself, to care what happened to her. She only offered another laugh.

She was neither a wolf or a human. She was just a soul that was beginning to stir. She didn't have a name, a beginning or an end. She simply was. The memory of one…that wasn't her, and so it slipped away inconsequentially.

Everything around her was black, or maybe white. She couldn't tell the difference. It was simply as it was. It was peaceful and chaotic. It was the sky and earth converging at that solid line at the end of the world. She suddenly felt a pulling, a tugging, and what was nothing now became something. The ghostly outline of a wolf appeared around her, offering her locomotion, and so she moved toward the call that beckoned her forward to a great desk. An astute figure looked at her over that desk, hood hiding any facial features. The figure seemed skeletal at first, but began to grow in focus and flesh. That face that looked at her with eyes that shown with all colors of the soul was strangely alluring, relieving, addicting now. She wanted to stay there for as long as she could, but there was an urgency about her position in this world and the world to come.

"You cannot stay here forever. You must eventually move on from this place. Why do you stay near me like this?" Death murmured, his voice burbling and musical. "Why do you linger, wolf, when there are hunting grounds far sweeter?"

It came back to her. She had refused to enter the door. It had been years and she still did not go, not even to purgatory. It hadn't even been a second in the land of the living.

The doors were slowly opening again and he hummed and murmured tenderly, alluringly to her, trying to coax her closer. Each time he did this it became harder and harder to ignore the heeding of his call. Still, she registered the place beyond and she shied from it. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to go. She didn't feel worthy of rest. She didn't yet deserve death.

She went away from the door and this alluring figure, and she forgot again, though once again her living memories assailed her in sleep and she awoke and she returned to Death again and he watched her with something like impatient, but also curiosity. This time when the door started to open again and he could see her shying away he stopped it and the door closed once more decisively.

"You do not want to live, but you do not want to rest. What do I make of you then? Fine. I do not do this often, but fine. You were pierced by the horn of a unicorn and so your soul is cracked, but I will sew you back together and I will send you back instead," he told her, standing and reaching his hand over the desk. Her soul twitched fearfully, but came to a sort of rest the moment he made contact, and she took on the form of what she was when she was living, though not quite the same. It was a human shape.

He was beside her now, holding her, murmuring in her ear, "I can send you back, but this is not for free. You will owe me a favor in the future, when you return to me. You cannot give your soul to any other, for you are mine now if you take this opportunity. It isn't too late to return to your hunting grounds, to your father's laughter and your mother's arms. You can finally rest. Why don't you rest?"

Her eyes started to close and she grew heavier and heavier with the promise of sleep. All the pain of living had fled from her and she felt safe. She was tempted to sleep.

She didn't want to.

There were expectations at play that were bigger than she could have imagined. She didn't want to die like this, struggling, running from forces bigger than her. She wanted peace, but not like this, not when she was in such chaos in the eyes of the living. There was that face again, the man she had seen in the pub soon after her father's death that she had then been too afraid to approach.

"One day you will return to me, as all do, and when you do you will be neither living nor dead any longer. The consequences of your life will no longer be any concern to you, but do not fear, for when your next death comes it will come with no more regrets, though you will be bleeding ink," he murmured in her ear, his voice soothing, but slowly growing more and more frightening and crackly. His hands on her went from smooth, opulent skin to gnarled and unforgiving until finally they were nothing but skeletal in nature. She looked into his eyes, but they were no longer welcoming and she opened her mouth to scream, but he was no longer there.  
***


	19. Journey to the West

Ray moved toward Falador in his flight, trembling and scratching at his skin. A man stood in her way and he stared at him in awe and confusion as he growled, "Stand and deliver!"

"I have nothing to give. I just got out of prison," he coughed meekly. "I, by virtue, cannot have anything to give you."

"What? A fiery-haired young man like you don't got nothing?" The man scoffed. "What about your shirt then?"

Ray stared at him and began to weep openly, rubbing his neck and looking all about before starting to take off his shirt. The highwayman appeared disturbed.  
"I was kidding! Stop! Please stop," he groaned, but Ray already had it off and was throwing it at him. The man skittered back in horror and confusion as if the thing were diseased. "Look mister, whatever is wrong with you just put your shirt back on and get some help, okay?"

He rushed away from Ray, his cape snagging on a nearby fence, pulling it off. The man paused only for a moment before glancing apprehensively at the weeping Ray still standing shirtless, and finally just rushing away. Ray sheepishly took his shirt back up and pulled it over his head, moving toward the imposing wall of Falador. He knew that he shouldn't simply go through when they knew his face, but he didn't want to go around for fear of running across the makeover mage that gave him the impression that she knew that Ray had taken some of her secrets.

Ray went back up the path nervously, but his heart pounded for fear of Galahad catching up to him until he noticed the black cape, still snagged on the fence. He seized it in his hands and frantically wrapped it around him so it would obscure his face as long as no one looked too closely at him. He was nervous and moved jerkily even so, and so there were still anxious whispers about him as he moved into the city.

The moment he walked in front of the Rising Sun the bartender came out with a tray of drinks that he was taking to a pair of knights that found the day nice enough to spend outside, chatting casually, though they were now staring silently at Ray. The bartender ran right into him, and he moved back skittishly as the alcohol splashed over him. He tore desperately at the cape to get the smell of alcohol away from his sensitive nose, snarling at the frightening noise of glass breaking.

The bartender's eyes widened the moment he got a look at him and he hissed, "you're the oaf that was causing trouble in my bar the other day! Knights, seize this troublemaker for further insulting my establishment!"  
"Please let me help you clean that up," he answered desperately, wanting to make amends, leaning down to pick up the pieces of glasses, but a sharp book kicked him in the ribs and sent him sprawling into the dirt.

The knight leering down at him spat, "What do you think of Saradomin and our holy city now, you rancorous wolf?"

His golden eyes flashed and he dragged himself to his feet against the side of the bar, his pride injured and his demeanor immediately changing. He thumped his chest and howled, "If you want a wolf you'll get a wolf!"

The knight was shocked as Ray launched himself at him without so much as a warning, pummeling his armor with hit after hit though his knuckles bled and bruised. The knight's companion stepped forward and tried to sink his sword into Ray's side, but Ray was quicker, jumping back with his eyes wide and wild. He spat out another snarl as he turned and fled. The next moment he was a wolf and the two knights glanced at each other before raising the alarm. A red wolf in the white city. Delarn once more at large. The fact that the red wolf was a male didn't mean anything to them. They didn't care who the person beneath the fur was.

He gasped and panted as he hid himself away in the garden, the voices echoing all around him. He then realized that he was beside a crate of apples. He was starving and so he ate and ate the apples until his stomach was swollen and he could eat no more. He was so busy eating that he was unaware of the fact that a woman was entering the shed where he hid, though he was made aware the moment she screamed shrilly, though she had not found a wolf as he had been, but a wolf in another sense as far as she was concerned. He stood there now, with his shirt poorly buttoned, eyeing her curiously.

He could hear the voices drawing closer to their location, and he looked from the door to her and her eyes widened as she turned to run, but he lunged at her and grabbed her around the waist, gripping her hands tightly in his other as he hissed, "Don't scream again. Don't you dare."  
After they learned that he had a hostage he felt as if they were trapped in there for many days, though it was only a span of hours before they sent someone to negotiate with him. The entire time the young woman had been whimpering and crying, chipping at Ray's nerves, but he said nothing.

"Beast! We know you're in there. If you do not come out now we will find a proper battle priest to vanquish you!" The voice near the door called in.  
"You lie. You won't dare or this girl will find herself lacking a stomach," Ray hissed back, and he wasn't yet sure if he was bluffing or not.

After a pause the man called in, "The woman you have is my daughter and I would do nothing to endanger her. If there is something you want, then you can have it, but you have to return her safely to us."

"I want safe passage out of the northern gate," he barked back. "Then you can have her back."  
"How do we know you won't keep her? Give her back first and we will give you no trouble on your way out," the negotiator answered.  
"No, passage first or else how do I know you won't shoot me the moment I step out of either this shed or the front gates?" He growled. "I have no further wants from her. Just safe passage and then I'll let her go."

There was sharp talk on the other side of the door, but nothing he could make out, the voices mingling angrily and desperately. His own anger boiled over, hotly, down his cheeks from his eyes and his shoulders bobbed a few times. The woman whimpered and struggled, but he could hear her hiss, too low for an average man to hear, "You wretched pig." Ray bristled, his eyes flashing, and he almost wanted to bite into her to teach her lesson for insulting him, but he held off, listening intently through the door, trying to catch anything that would determine if he was condemned or not.

Finally, the man spoke again, his voice filled with both anger and relief. "You may have your passage, but you must swear never to return to this place, heathen, on pain of death."

"Good, fine, I don't wish to," he barked back, and nudged her forward, one arm still around her as he shoved the door open, trying to keep as much of himself behind her as possible. By now there were a group of white knights gathered, but they stepped back to give him room as he raked them with his terrible gaze. His eyes settled on the man that had been speaking to him and he felt strangely surprised to see that it was nothing more than a gardener, albeit a well-trimmed one.

"The moment you are beyond those gates, you are to let my daughter go," he told him, his voice strained as he looked at the young woman, particularly at where his hands held her fast, "And that will be that. Know that if there is any sign that you might go back on your word there will be no place for someone like you to hide."

Ray truly doubted that, but he nodded briskly, not intending to in the first place. He started to sidle to the side, keeping his back away from them so he wouldn't be exposed, but he immediately saw a problem and he spoke up. Keeping one hand on her throat, he pointed with the other at the two smallest knights gathered there. "I want him and him to lay down their swords and I want them to walk behind me as I leave. No shield either. No weapons at all if it can be done. If either of them makes any move toward me that makes me think that they're trying to attack me I will kill her immediately."

One of them, a sandy-haired man, growled, "How dare you ask us to lay down our arms in the face of such a corrupt person? You dare to dishonor us as well as compromise this woman?"

"Hey!" Ray barked back, his eyes flashing again, "Do you expect me to trust you all any more than you trust me? Should I expect an arrow shouldn't enter my back the moment you can locate my heart through it? Should I expect that one of you shouldn't consider my death more important than her life if you had extra reach on me?"

There were grumbles of outrage, but finally someone spoke up. "Give him the benefit and it will set him at ease." It was the old knight that used to keep Delarn and his eyes were steely as he looked at the young man. Ray could almost swear he knew exactly who Ray was, and it filled him with some trepidation, but his gaze broke the moment the two knights finally, grudgingly, forfeited their arms, indicated by the clinking of metal.

"Good," Ray told them, but he sounded almost sheepish now. "Keep four paces behind me at all times. If I should be attacked in any way I'm too assume I'm to die and so do not doubt that she will die with me, understood?"

They nodded, eyes narrowed, and Ray gave a nervous nod in return. He backed up from the group of them and waited for the two knights to take their places carefully behind him—as to not startle him—before marching toward the gate. There were murmurs of horror, anger, and bitterness that followed his march, and the knights behind him set his nerves on edge as he imagined all sorts of things they might do to him with hidden weapons, but so far he was thankful that none of that had yet come to pass.

There was one tense moment in which a rock had hit him in the head. He snarled and tensed up, whipping his head about quickly to face his surprise attacker just to see the blurry sight of a woman dragging her son through their front door, whimpering and crying for him to forgive them before the door slammed closed. The knights behind him had tensed as well, as if preparing to jump on him, but he shook it off and kept walking. His hostage had whimpered a bit, as if frightened that he had lost his cool, but was strangely quiet afterward.

The moment he was passing through the gate he whimpered and prayed. He didn't know why he did that, but the feeling of passing through those gates like this filled him with such hope and sheer panic that he couldn't help it. He didn't even know what god he spoke to as it wasn't a prayer that Zamorak would take kindly to.

The moment he was through he spoke to the guards and told them, "I'm walking as far as the crossroads and that will be all. I will release her there."

The two of them didn't say anything, but they were staring at him strangely. He felt nervous, but he continued walking as if they had confirmed what he had said and had accepted it. The moment he was that far as he had said, he turned slowly and eased her away from him, his hands shaking, eyes watching the knights with a tense moment of fear as he thought they might jump him the moment he pushed her away, but they just stood there.

The moment she was free from him, she turned and said carefully, "If you really meant to kill me, then you would have done it. You didn't know what had hit you. Why didn't you? You weren't even ready to, didn't even act like you were going to when that happened."

He stared at her for a moment and shook his head slowly, backing up bit by bit as if she were holding a sword to his neck rather than simply talking to him. His eyes suddenly widened and he darted to the side, but he was a second too slow. An arrow dug deep into left shoulder, and he tried to catch sight of his attacker, but it was none of the three in front of him so he knew that they must be on the wall and could very well hit him again. The pain was intense and he could barely think at all, actually. He shifted right in front of them and darted away in wolf form, the arrow bobbing painfully with each stride, but he managed to escape a second.

It wasn't long before knights were streaming from the gates, rushing after him with an angry battle cry, swords raised, and the two knights and the woman called out to them in return, calling for them to stop, to reconsider, still trying to make out what they had seen themselves, but it didn't stop them. They were hot on his heels.

The moment the people of Taverley caught sight of him rushing past they waved jovially, called out to him, but he didn't slow. They tried to stop the rushing wave that soon followed, evidence of why he had been running.

Ray only ran faster as he heard the screams behind him, terror seizing his heart and mind as he was made certain he would die as well under those blades, blood leaving a trail. Grassy pathways turned to white stone as he came upon the White Wolf Mountain. The wolves didn't question or stop him. They hid for fear of the men and their swords and their cries for wolf blood.

He scrambled and scraped to get over those wickedly jagged and slick stones, paws struggling to get traction on those rocks, and even the knights below him were struggling to follow him over this path, which was likely why he chose it whether he intended to or not. Each time the arrow shaft got caught on something he howled in agony, and the knights below paused before pursuing him with renewed effort.

He struggled to rush over one particularly huge stone, but it was loose and he could feel it shift beneath his weight and the weight of all the apples he had consumed. It began to move and there was a moment of weightlessness as he lost his grip on the stone and began to fall back, and he was certain that it would crush him under its weight. Finally, finally, however, he managed to pull himself over and the moment he was over the stone slid free and tumbled into the knights below.

He didn't bother to even glance back as he raced on to a new world.


	20. Back to the Start

Izara Faewulf could remember the day his daughter was born. The one thing he could remember the most was the screaming, the agony of it. It was the same with his son, but this time it was something different. He had watched his Loro growing weaker and weaker every day and now she seemed to be pouring the last of what she had out.

The second thing was how she behaved after. It was common for Lyalltines to act defensive about their children, to bare their fangs and prevent their husbands from seeing the child when they're first born. These were normal instincts, but now…

"My Loro, my precious love," he moaned as he huddled outside of the door after she had chased him away verbally. It wasn't so much because he was excluded from her bedside, but the look of pain and despair, the smell of blood that had come from her. He wept and wept, knowing that this was his fault. If he hadn't lost Noche to the sea, and if he hadn't been so selfish as to ask for another child to continue his line…

He had told her that she didn't have to, that if she felt she wasn't up for it she didn't have to, but of course she would. She was as proud as him, and he knew it. He knew it and asked it of her knowing that she wouldn't turn him down.

She had lasted many more months, that beautiful woman that knew how to make the moonlight dance on her fur, that was always patient and loving, but fiercer than any other in her ways, but…but he had watched her waste way. He had watched her bleed out until nothing was left of her. Nothing at all.

Her daughter slept soundly as he buried her mother, nothing more than black fur.

Red fur. Red fur. Red fur. Why couldn't she have had black fur like hers and not his? Why did the gods decree that her last sacrifice was in _his_ image?

He wept bitterly as the dirt fell on that dull, lifeless black, where not even the moon danced any longer.

Izara watched Delarn playing, and he felt disconcerted as she tumbled into walls. She would stand and growl at the wall, but it wouldn't be long before she would do it again. He was starting to believe that he was raising the dumbest child he had ever seen, and his heart ached as he was sure Loro could do something about it if she were here. She'd know how to fix this.

He shook his head and got her ball from her. She appeared confused for a moment and he felt utterly frustrated with her. Couldn't she see it was no longer there?  
"Delarn!" He called, and she immediately looked at him, wagging her tail. He showed her the ball and then threw it over her head, expecting her to catch it, but she let it sail by. It wasn't until it hit the far wall with a dull thud that she turned to chase it. He couldn't understand why she was so slow mentally, when she could turn so quickly physically.

A young man came to his door one day, and Izara stared at him. He smelled of the North and Izara tried to close the door, but the young man wiggled his way in. Delarn was taking her evening nap and so they were effectively alone.

"Sir Faewulf, Seth—"

"Do not speak to me further," Izara answered bitterly. "Tell him that I'm dead and leave it at that. I _am_ dead, after all."

"But Sir Faewulf, please! He sent me here to get answers. I'm sure he must be worried about you," he replied. "You haven't seen him since…"  
"My daughter was born, yes, and I told him to give Loro and I space, and I still stand by it," he answered with a rumbling growl.

"But—"

"No more! I am dead and you will be as well if you tell him anything other than to leave me be," Izara snarled at him, face twisted in hatred and rage, and the young man went ghost white before shuffling out the door.

He then sighed, sat down, and puffed out a heavy breath. The days that followed found him nearly hoping that his old friend would show up at his doorstep, but he knew he wouldn't.

One day the local shopkeeper came walking up with Delarn in tow. Worry was plain on his face as he asked her, "Did she get into anything? Is she in trouble?"

"Oh no, not at all Izara. I just wanted to make sure she made it home safely," she replied with a warm smile.

"Safely? She's never had trouble getting from here to there and back again," he answered blankly.

"Yes, I know. She's very clever for it, as near-sighted as she is," she laughed lightly.

"What?"  
"Didn't you know?" She nearly scolded. "Your daughter is blind as a bat. She seems to get around fine, but you know me. I'm fussy and I was worried once I realized. She was helping me pick out paintings and couldn't tell me a thing about either of them until she got up real close."

Izara nodded stupidly and took her hand. Delarn beamed up at him happily.

"Daddy, why are you always to grumpy?" Delarn asked as he got her ready for bed.

"What do you mean, dove?" He answered.

"I can't remember you ever really smiling," she answered, even though he appeared to be smiling now. "Is it because you never get to take naps?"

"What do you mean, you silly thing?" He asked he responded, feeling oddly uncomfortable.

"I mean you're never smiling. Smiling is when a person puts off warm, bright colors, but whenever I see you there are only dark blues…" Her tone was gentle and curious as she tilted her head back and forth at him, leaning closer to look at him. Her eyes widened a bit as she noticed the tears forming at the edge of his eyes and he pulled away from her.

"Don't worry, dove. I'll smile more. I'll smile just for you."

 **End of Book 1  
Book 2: s/12467788/1/Ray-in-Ardougne**


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